Requiem
by S.N. Rainsworth
Summary: A rendition, a moment, is all it takes for something to change. / Spin-off of AnneriaWings' "Lab Rat". Psychologically challenging. Read with caution.
1. prologue

_I was inspired by _**AnneriaWings' **_brilliant fanfiction, Lab Rat. Unfortunately, when writing a story this site doesn't allow you hyperlinks, so I'm afraid you'll have to go, search it out, and read it yourself. That story is just the type to make you - oh god - to - like - I have no words. All I can tell you is that it makes you want to write fanfiction for it. Endlessly. Endlessly. God, she won't update her sequel and it's killing me. _

_Not to be, like, a...jerk, or whatever, but I just want to write in that universe that she's created. I doubt I'll do as great a job as she has, but one can always hope. One can always dream...There are direct quotes from her stories, sometimes. Be sure to catch them - I find them unforgettable, really.  
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_Kudos to her. And please, support her, and recognize what amazing piece of literary she has created. _

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><p><strong>requiem<br>**_a rendition, a moment  
><em>is all it takes  
><em>for something to change.<br>_[**prologue**]_  
><em>

* * *

><p>Bright light blinded me as I tried to sit up, my ribcage protesting as I did so. I covered my eyes with my hands, wishing that I could reach out a little more and close the window's blinds, but I knew that getting up would mean that I was actually accepting the fact that I would be getting up. Going to school. Two weeks, it's been.<p>

My feet touched the wooden floor and I shivered slightly—it was way too cold for my liking, but nowadays everything seemed cold. The alarm clock beside my bed read in green, blaring letters, '7:02 AM', twenty minutes before the alarm was set. I shut the alarm off beforehand and made myself stand up properly, wobbling slightly.

From the past few days, I haven't been able to function properly. I didn't know whether I was shutting down, or whether this was some sort of psychological way that my mind is doing to protect me or whatever, but whatever it was I was glad for it. Who knows, maybe Jazz could explain it better—my usual autopilot-ing, I never though I'd be so grateful for it until now. I could stop and think. I could somehow figure this out. Somehow. That's what I thought.

_Somehow. _

But it wasn't working. Because whenever I thought about it, I couldn't. Whenever I tried to bring it up by myself, I couldn't. Cold fear and pure desperation gripped me hard and didn't want to let go, pounded against the walls of my brain and refused to leave. I had rendered myself useless against those memories—despite what I thought I was _trying _to do, I wanted to forget it all. I wanted to forget it all happened, to forget that it was them (_my mother loomed over me, the harsh glare of the artificial fluorescent lights reflecting off her goggles in many hues of red—gleamed on her face like the bloody eyes of a curious monster, or alien, or some other creature_—) and most of all, I wished to go to Clockwork and beg him to turn this all around.

Some part of me already knew the answer for that, what he would do. Stare at me with those apathetic eyes, tell me that "it can't be changed" in his soft voice of his, stare at me with sympathy. Because in some twisted game of fate's, this was _supposed _to happen. It was supposed to—eventually, it would have—no, no, I refuse to believe it—

"Danny?" Jazz's concerned voice floated over, and I turned to see her blue eyes staring at me with worry. "Do you need help in getting dressed?"

"No," I said silently.

She moved into the room completely, still in her own pj's, hair mussed and reminded me why she was doing this all. "Are you sure? You look pretty pale." Slowly walking toward me, hesitant footsteps, the tips of her fingers touching my cheek.

I knew what was going to happen, fought the instinct to run, to get away before she came over. Still, I flinched at her touch and her eyes flashed before she continued, "You know you can tell me anything, right?" With those blue eyes of hers boring into mine, trying to tell me something, _anything, _to comfort me. I nodded my head and her feather-light touch disappeared.

"I know," I answered her quietly. My eyes looked toward the alarm clock's and she followed. "I have to get ready for school."

Jazz nodded slowly. "Y-yeah. So do I." Slightly abrupt, she got up from my bed and assessed me once more, before turning around and out the door. I saw her look back for a second before she disappeared.

The floor seemed to be cold again, but I held on to various things until I regained my balance. My head started to hurt, like the feeling when you've been shaking a ball filled with water and when you stop, all of it just stops and weighs down heavily. I felt like that. Taking a shuddering breath, I ignored the twinge in my chest and slipped on my clothes.

My backpack was waiting for me downstairs, along with a bowl of cereal and Jazz, looking all ready and as normal as she could be. (_we both knew that it couldn't possibly be ever normal again_) She smiled at me and I could see the strain in her eyes. "Hurry up and eat, I have to talk to my chemistry AP teacher about something this morning." It was her own offish way of saying, _hurry up so we—you—don't have to see mom and dad today. _

I was about to protest that I wasn't hungry—and I really wasn't, just didn't have much of an appetite these days—but by the way Jazz's lips were pressed tightly together I followed and sat down on the seat. A hesitant bite or two when Jazz stared at me expectantly, forcing myself to let the cold milk and dry cereal to be sent down my throat. I put the spoon down and started to back away, but she seemed to expect that.

"Danny," she started when she saw that I was trying to escape, "You need to _eat. _You'll feel horrible later on if you don't."

"I'm not hungry," I mumbled unconvincingly.

Jazz pursed her lips. "Please?" she whispered, almost begging me.

_"Please. Don't do this..." _

Sheer force stopped me from hyperventilating. I forced out a sharp breath that was caught in my throat. Lights started to scatter in my eyes and I blinked them away rapidly, swallowing thickly. "F-fine," I rasped, disgusted with the way I sounded. Too close. Too familiar.

My sister gave me a weak-willed smile and I shoveled another spoonful of food into my mouth, feeling my stomach grumble—in acceptance or rebuttal, I wasn't sure—and it slipped down my throat while Jazz's eye rotated between watching me, watching the clock hung on the wall, looking out the window to the car. I finished my last spoonful, feeling bloated slightly, and pushed the bowl away.

"I'm done," I said simply. Jazz's head whipped around to look at me, then the bowl. She opened her mouth to say something, but I pointed to the clock—feeling slightly bad, it was a sort of blackmail, wasn't it?—and she sighed, half-sympathetic and half-sounding like she was bordering on hopeless.

Jazz went straight to the car, not wasting time in throwing our bags in the back seat and sitting in the front, leaving myself to trail after her. Once in the passenger's seat next to her, she looked toward me and took a deep breath. Like she was afraid to ask me something. Like she was afraid of the answer.

"Danny, are you sure you want to—"

"Yes." My clear interruption caused a slight wrinkle in between her eyebrows. "It's been far too long, Jazz. I need to go." _For at least a bit of normalcy. For something to be right. Anything. _I don't know what it was that I craved—but somewhere in the back of my mind, it sounded awfully like the routine days that I had before...something to keep my mind off what happened. Another part of me was saying that it was the guarantee that I wouldn't have to face anything like I did inside the house.

As we pulled away from the driveway, I couldn't help but stare back at FentonWorks, looking so typically _same _that it sent something clenching in my gut. Nothing looked like it changed. Nobody could assume that something happened there that practically broke apart our family. It was just like everything else about Amity Park— a sort of trademark, knowing that the Fentons were still their wacky selves and it was just so..._normal. _

But it wasn't.

A lump built itself unconsciously in my throat as I realized that _nothing _would _ever _be normal again.

My head bumped against the seat and I stared at Casper High's immaculate height in front of me. Barely, I remembered about how my English homework wasn't done. I didn't read that chapter for history. I didn't write that essay on molecules for chemistry. I forgot to do the problems in the math textbook. All these worries, they seemed so..._unreal._ It felt like I wasn't talking as myself but as someone else.

Jazz stopped right in front of the school gates. She stared at me worriedly. "Give this to the secretary," she murmured, passing me an off-white piece of folded paper. I took it with numb fingers. "And...Danny, please. Remember, Sam, Tucker, and I are always here for you." Jazz's lips pursed as she stared over me. It seemed like she was more nervous about this than I was, but a part of me was shutting down and shutting down rapidly, rejecting the possibility of human contact. "Anything wrong, just ask the nurse to go home."

"I'm fine." The statement was getting so old it even sounded fake to my ears. "Nothing will happen."

She glanced at me, skeptical.

"Nothing."

Jazz sighed and opened the car door. I grabbed my backpack from the back seat—taking care of injuries, I wasn't fully healed yet and it hurt when I bent down—and turned around, walking straight to the the front doors. I barely noticed when Sam and Tucker appeared beside me, each on one side. Tucker stared at me with the same kind of worry Jazz had on her face nowadays, and Sam placed her hand on my arm.

"Danny," she started softly, "Are you—"

"Don't."

I didn't want to hear any of it. Not a word. Because if I did, I would remember (_snap of latex gloves, smell of blood and ectoplasm, cold hard surface, thousand volts per second_) things that I didn't want to remember about. We walked into the school hallways where there was basically nobody there and suddenly I was wondering if I should have come at all. I never noticed, but there was the faintest smell of antiseptic...of bad memories. I wanted to hurl, to make a run for it, but Sam's grip on my arm tightened.

"You'll get through this day fine," she said, sounding like she was assuring herself more than me. "I share most of your classes, Danny. And Tucker has the rest with you."

Tucker nodded his agreement. "We're right here, man."

I wanted to block it all out. Because even though I recognized them right beside me, it was the same with my parents; like an abyss had broken up between us, I just didn't understand them anymore. Whenever I was in the same room as my...mom and dad, I had to fight the urge to scream and run for my life. All I could see was them, coming at me with the sharp scalpel gripped tightly in her hand, the lights, the fear, the utter horror that settled in the pit of my stomach...and the morbid _curiosity _in their faces, like they weren't doing anything wrong, like they weren't _cutting their son open..._

(_they didn't know, didn't know, why didn't you tell them?_)

And I really had to wonder, would any of it made a difference?

Thoughts hung at the edge of my subconscious as I made my way to the administrator's office, planning to go in and get out as fast as I could. The note was still gripped in my hand. I didn't dare let it go, nor looked at it's quantities—I recognized the paper as mom's stationary paper, and no doubt her handwriting (_those hands, slender and familiar, used to ruffle my hair now covered in ectoplasm_) was inside.

Wondering if I looked as blank as I felt, I handed over the note to the secretary, who nodded and clucked her tongue. She glanced at me for a second, a bit of sympathy in her eyes (_What does she need to be sympathetic for?_) before handing me a pass with scrawly letters.

"Show that to all of your teachers, hun," she said, popping gum in her mouth. "And welcome back." Not as if she meant it.

The hallways were completely empty as I walked through them – almost like a ghost town, but I saw no humor in that. It was eerily silent, and I faintly remembered the sound of the second bell going off before Tucker and Sam left me. _And they said that they were right there. _Unbidden, a something akin to anger shot up in me and I immediately swallowed it down. No way will I let myself think of my friends that way—

"Mr. Fenton," Lancer noticed me while I was entering the classroom. Immediately, I stiffened as many pairs of eyes were sent my way. "Nice to see that you've decided to finally join us the world of learning."

I handed him the pass and went to my seat wordlessly.

He raised an eyebrow at my behavior, but continued on with the lesson. I couldn't focus properly on the words and they seemed to scramble before my eyes; I hoped to dear God that I wasn't getting dyslexia or something of the sort. All throughout the lesson, Sam and Tucker tried to make eye contact or pass notes, and I even heard the occasional "Psst, Danny!" or two. Once they realized I wasn't going to answer, they gave up and slumped in their seats, looking at the copies of _Hamlet _on our desks and pretending to study.

It stayed that way for the rest of the period—a stony silence between me and them, not gone unnoticed by the rest of the class.

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><p>The rest of the day was relatively fine; if you excluded the fact that whenever someone saw me, they either sneered (Dash and Kwan) or sympathized me (the rest of the school population). At first, I didn't know why, but then it got clearer when Sam pointed it out. 'Eyes of the dead', she had said. It was noticeable, even to the most stupidest of students—I wonder if that was one reason why Dash was avoiding me. Not that I complained. My sides ached without him being there to re-open stitches.<p>

Just the thought caused a shiver to go through me. It seemed like where ever I went, whatever I was doing, memories of that night kept repeating themselves in my mind, like a broken record. Over and over, I could hear their distant voices, feel my chest expand to exhaustion because of all the hyperventilating. Crystal clear, I forgot about everyone and everyone else when my mind was plagued with the stained smell of ectoplasm on my clothes and on my body and the drenched slippery texture of blood I found on my fingers.

(_Your fault, you should have told them—_)

_Shut up. _

Mom and dad's faces are still imprinted in my mind. It was my fault, I know it was. If only I told them sooner, if only they understood—the only reason they didn't was because I never told them. I should have told them. _Stupid stupid stupid..._ Another part of my mind, darker, barely there, whispered back to me.

(_Would it have made a difference?_)

I was their _son. _I was their son...their only son, I thought they loved me...I was sure that they'd _listen _at least, that they would hear me out. If in that moment I could have told them properly, shown them. But that was my fear back then—what had happened, would it have made anything change? Would they still see me as their son?

It seemed more rational that they wouldn't. No, because I understood—I was not their son. I wasn't 'Danny Fenton', the kid that used to break vases just by walking or hated cold milk. I was never their son, from the moment that I went into the Ghost Portal and came out as Danny Phantom. I was something else all together; half-dead, half-alive, neither belonging with humans and neither belonging with ghosts. My heart was beating, telling me _no they still love you _but my head was telling me that _they were scientists and you weren't human, biologically related or _not.

And even though Sam said my heart was in the right place, my mind was slowly infiltrating it. Every beat, every thump that vibrated in my ears told me that _I wasn't supposed to be alive. _Any longer on that—the—table...I would have died. Danny Phantom would have died for sure, taking Danny Fenton along with him. The worst part about it? I wished that it happened. I wished that I took my last breath on the table. I wished that it would be the last place I would see again.

Because, as I've said before, _nothing was worth this. _Nothing was worth going through the days like nothing was wrong, pretending that I wasn't broken and scarred, both physically and mentally. In the end, that's all it was—an act, and this was the end of the play. I didn't want to act anymore.

(_No more lies_)

No more.

"Danny..?"

I stopped as soon as I heard my name, Sam's hand on my arm again. Her fingers burned where they met my cold skin. She was undeterred, though. "We're going to biology," she said slowly, as if the pain flashing in her eyes would tell me everything. "You can stay behind, okay?"

At first, I was confused—I'm not sure if it showed on my face (_I still felt so empty_) but Sam continued. "W-we're...ah, um...we're doing...d-dissections t-today. Um—" she swallowed thickly, looking around. "Let's go to Mr. Lancer's classroom."

It felt like someone had electrocuted me.

Every inch of my body seemed to be lit on fire as she dragged me away from the biology classroom, where we had made it before I gained notice of the instruments they were taking hold of. _Snap. _Mr. Falluca pulled on a pair of latex gloves, his voice carrying throughout the classroom. Sam, seeing the look on my face, dragged me away—it was no use, I could still hear the _snap, snap, snap _of gloves against skin...and the room's bright glare against—

_You're evil. A ghost. A lying, disgusting _monster.

(_Stop it_)

_...most certainly _not _our son._

(_Stop it!)_

"Hold him down, Jack!"

_"Danny?" _

Not again. Not again. Please, anything but this. Why didn't they believe me? Why didn't they _try _to listen? Fingers on my arm grasped tighter...pain flooded my senses (_real or not_) I wanted to go, leave, run away (_get the hell out of here_) I can't breathe (_GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE_) _"...anny! Danny! Wake up!"_

Something that could only be described as pure, unadulterated fear dropped like a rock to the pit of my stomach. All coherent thoughts were now jumbled, half-crazed and not at all making sense as I struggled to breathe—like I was there all over again—the floor was cold, so cold, I felt so numb, the whole world seemed to fall at my feet. The single sentence kept spinning in my mind, taking over everything else.

..._monster. _

The truth always hit hard, but it always seemed to hit harder back in that tender spot. My back hit against something hard—immediately, panic settled in. This couldn't happen again. I blinked rapidly, fighting off the hotness behind my eyes, something else that was trying to tug at me, calling my name.

The voice was familiar, but I couldn't make out anything properly. Others joined in. My mind started to pound inside my cranium.

_Stop–NO!_

No, no, no please no. Not again. _Please—_

Realization crept along the surface of my conscious again. A cold hand seemed to crawl up and curled it's merciless fingers around my heart in an iron grip and squeezed painfully. They wouldn't understand. They didn't understand. They didn't _know, _but they were still doing it—_why can't you hear me?—_but it was obvious that even if they knew they wouldn't forget, because they didn't care, I was their son but I was half ghost and they would _never accept it—_

Something shook me hard. "Danny!"

I cracked my eyes open, unaware that I had even closed them. "S-Sam?" She was looking at me with a mixture of fear, apprehension, worry and nervousness on her face, and I imagined there was much more behind that mask that she wanted to tell me.

"Mr. Fenton, what in blazes is going on here?" Gruff voice. Mr. Lancer. I craned my neck—painfully, it seemed as though even if that moment wasn't real, I was still stuck in it—and his brown eyes bore into mine.

When I spoke, my voice was hoarse. "N-nothing. I just..." I couldn't find a way to fix this. I couldn't. What was there to say? I couldn't lie. I wouldn't let myself be deluded and stick into that world again. It's what brought me here in the first place.

"Mr. Lancer..." Sam was at a loss for words as well, and he stared at us, waiting.

After a pause, I said, "H-home."

Two pairs of eyes turned my way. I felt like I wanted to die, like there was still the remnants of blood underneath my fingers. Hell, I bet I can even smell the ectoplasm, feel the metal table. My wrists felt heavier, like those restrictions were still tied firmly around them.

"I want to go h-home." It was hard to breathe. It was hard to call that place home.

Sam turned to Mr. Lancer, desperation clear in her voice. Her fingers were clamped tightly around my shoulder, knuckles white. It burned. "Please, can you let him go, Mr. Lancer?" She couldn't tell him why. _Don't tell him why. _

Mr. Lancer's eyes softened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by Mr. Falluca, who had come out of his biology classroom not a few feet away. We turned to him, me doing so out of instinct.

"Dear my, what happened to young Danny here?" he frowned, eyebrows creasing. "Are you okay—" He reached out his hand to touch me, but my eyes widened at the skin-tight covering on his hands and fingers and I scuttled back, tripping on my feet and slipping. My wounds hurt, my fingers fumbled, Sam's grip escaped.

"Mr. Fenton...?" Mr. Lancer was shocked at my sudden movement. Mr. Falluca was jarred by the fear set in my eyes. Sam choked back something akin of a sob. I found myself breathing heavily, practically hyperventilating, but I couldn't get enough air in my lungs. The world started to spin.

"_...anny?_"

"_Is he having...panic attack?_"

Bright lights danced in front of my eyes, and stars exploded before them. I took one last desperate gulp of air, hoping that it would suffice as I realized what was coming, felt the bright world and familiar faces escape from my notice as I slipped into darkness. The ever-growing fear set in the corner of my mind, however, did not go away.

I had a feeling it wouldn't for a very long time.


	2. part i

_Oh wow, thank you so much for reviewing/alerting/favoriting! :) I never thought this story would gain so much attention...And thank you, AnneriaWings, for your kind comments_—_I know it must mean nothing to you, but having someone you genuinely admire review their work_—_well, it's a little close to unbelievable. :) Just know that there are tons of people on the sidelines, waiting patiently for you. So don't worry about time and all that. _

_I was planning this chapter to be 10,000 words, but I just felt uncomfortable with it_—_something about the flow wasn't correct. For those of you who are reading this on fanfiction, the parts will be posted separately. On deviantART, I think I'll just replace the chapter into one whole thing, you know? XD  
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_Well, enough talking, on to the next chapter, yeah?_

**EDIT: **_Part i and ii are now adjoined chapters._ :-)_ This, however, is only in fanfiction dot net...deviantART is a another story all together, I'm afraid.  
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><p><strong>requiem<br>**_a single breath of air  
><em>a chance to regain humanity  
><em>and it's like the world disappeared.<br>_[**part i**]

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><p>When anything <em>conscious <em>came to me, I realized that it came to me in the form of something cushion-like and soft. My eyes were still closed, but my fingers found their way to a soft, feathery pillow and I knew that I must've been in bed or something of the sort. No. I wasn't in my bed—my bed was straight, not like a big cloud...which was what I felt like I was floating on. A big, fluffy cloud. That made my eyes hurt and accompanied my neck pain.

Groaning, I attempted to sit up, but then a dizzying feeling swept over me and I returned back to the pillow. It smelled slightly like flowers—daisies, it seemed—and...paper?

My eyes snapped open. I was in Jazz's room, no doubt.

And that I was. All her stuff was there; the walls a pale green that accentuated the darker green of the curtains, a gentle breeze blowing them inside the room. A laptop hummed on a wooden desk that was stacked with books, right next to a bookcase, a mini-whiteboard right next to it with my sister's scribbled handwriting. This room was vaguely familiar to me—when was the last time I've been in Jazz's room?

"Oh, Danny!" A flash of red hair that whipped around and I was immediately taken in by the scent of paper inside old, leather books and roses, too stunned to flinch. "Are you okay? When I heard that you collapsed in school, I came over as soon as I could." She pulled back, and there was a grimace on her face. "You don't have to go to biology class, you know."

The only thing my incoherent mind was able to make out was, "I-I need a permission..." I trailed off, realizing what I was saying and shook my head carefully, taking notice of the painful headache that was forming. "What happened?"

"You...fell," she started carefully, looking guarded, folding her hands on her lap. "In a sort of...panic attack."

_Panic. _

I remember that feeling well. "I-I know..." Yes, I can still make out the remnants of that little episode, swallowing thickly to force it all back down. "How long was I out?" Jazz looked at the clock and turned back to me, obscuring my vision of it.

"A few hours," she said. "Not much. Sam and Tucker are downstairs. Mom and dad..." she glanced at me to gauge my reaction, but I figured I didn't have any, because she continued in the same tone, "...they're in—they're downstairs." _In the lab. _

(_your fault_)

"Okay," I said, noticing the echo in my voice; I sounded terribly hollow. Perhaps I looked dead. What was I supposed to do now? Go to them? Go talk to my parents, if they'll still hear me out? I mean, I understand that we—they—said that they would figure this out, work to make us a family again, but...I can't...I just couldn't think of us that way anymore. It was too taxing.

Jazz sighed. "Danny, I need to change your bandages." A simple statement. Yet she looked at me with something more; it made me realize how I was grateful for her support right now. Jazz was always a constant, whether I liked it or not, and now I couldn't imagine her not being here. She was a sort of pillar for me.

I nodded and raised my arms, letting her take off my shirt. Her lips pressed together tightly at the sight of my slightly bloodied bandages, and it I found myself flinching when she reached out. Jazz, the ever observant one, saw right through it. "Danny, if you want to do it yourself..."

I felt the color drain out of my face. "No. N-no, i-it's okay."

Honestly, I don't think I could handle staring at the monstrous 'Y' shaped cut on my torso. A prickling told me that my mind would have a better time handling it in about fifteen years than now—now, I didn't want to remember, I just want to forget it all. It's not going to happen (_red eyes and curious smiles_) but I can sure as hell try. Jazz seemed a little surprised, but then she nodded.

"You can close your eyes, if it helps," she offered. _Why does she always know the answer? _I felt the world slip into darkness and it did nothing to calm me. But I tensed at every feeling of her fingers unwrapping the white gauze around my chest, wincing when cold air hit sensitive, damaged flesh.

Even without looking at it, I could tell that it was bad. Jazz's breath hitched slightly, even though I was sure she had seen this so many times in the past two weeks. (_she's not used to it and neither are you_) I licked my lips as they became dry, feeling the burn of antiseptic on the thin stitches that I could _feel _were there. I just knew where they were, and had the inhumane instinct to just feel it with my fingers...it was just so ethereal to know that I was cut open—

"Jazz, hurry up please," I rasped.

She seemed to break her concentration, because I felt her fumble a bit. "Sorry little brother," was what she mumbled before going back to work.

About fifteen minutes later and I could open my eyes again, refusing to look at the scars littered on my chest. Jazz helped me put on another shirt—she knew fully well that I could do it fine, but I felt too drained to say anything.

"You look thin," she said to me. "Let's go get you some food."

Jazz grabbed my arm and pulled me up gently. I tried to ignore the way her fingers were warm over my wrist. I didn't try to break free—I just couldn't. It felt like I was drugged or something, because I couldn't walk properly, couldn't even see two feet in front of me without almost tripping. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Jazz stare at me in worry—it was the only expression on her face these days—before leading me downstairs.

The people I least expected were there.

My mother shot up out of her chair, looking at me with slightly strained eyes, moving forward in pure instinct to come over. The only thing that stopped her was the table in between us. I didn't see her—nor dad, who stared at me a bit of trepidation in his gaze—in a while, seeing as how they were always downstairs in the – well, you know. I don't know what they were doing there, nor did I _want _to know. I just wanted to get away from it all.

"Danny, we heard about what happened," Surprisingly, it was my father that started first. His tone was calm, almost gentle, but some part of me told me it was all a lie. "Are you okay, son?"

_...most certainly _not _our son. _

I felt Jazz's hand tense up on my wrist. "Yeah, 'm fine," I mumbled.

"Oh...my baby..." My mom had been like this the few instances I met her—always mumbling, shadows under her eyes, looking like death itself. It made me sort of guilty, but then again she was the one who started it all, and I couldn't seem to get myself to talk to her ever since that day two weeks ago. When they promised everything would be fine. When they lied.

When I lied and agreed.

Nothing would be fine, that much for sure. Taking liberties, I did my best not to meet with them—it was the most I could do, for them and for me. I didn't want to remember, and when I was near them, it seemed like the hazy images from that night re-installed themselves into my head. I knew that I could remember them vividly if I wanted to. But I didn't.

I bet Jazz noticed, but she didn't say anything. "Mrs. Fenton..." Funny, I didn't notice Sam was there. Tucker too, for once looking calm without his PDA. Didn't Jazz mention they were here? "It's fine. Really. Danny was okay, he just had a mishap..." the rest was murmured in a voice I couldn't hear while Sam patted my mother's back in an awkward way of comforting.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk as if I weren't there." I caught the attention of everyone in the room, maybe because my words slurred like I was drunk and high at the same time.

Tucker spoke up first. "Dude...you don't look so good."

"...fine," my mouth mumbled again, but I couldn't seem to form proper sentences. Jazz sighed.

"Come on, sit." I felt myself sit on a hard surface, no doubt the kitchen chairs. "I think you have a concussion, Danny. Sam said that you hit your head pretty hard on the lockers."

"Mmm," was all I was capable of saying.

Tucker sighed. "Danny...I think you shouldn't go to school tomorrow."

I didn't reply.

"I think it's a good idea too," my dad said quietly. "You should take time off for a while."

Something in me snapped at that. "I need to get out of here," I rasped out, feeling my throat scratch at the words. "I _need _to get out of here." Be it the park or the school or the junkyard, anywhere but here. Anywhere but this place where my memories follow me like a lost puppy and hang on to my every whim. I don't know if the desperation in my voice showed, but Jazz's breath hitched again.

"Danny—"

"Out of h-here," I repeated, words slurring. I felt distinctly dizzy again. "P-please."

They wouldn't know that I didn't want to be here because I could still smell the antiseptic, see the swirl of colors on the steel fixture of the lab table with the vivid green of my ectoplasm and the dark red of my blood. They didn't know that I could hear their voices, warbled and grained in my ear, that I still see flashes of that moment before my eyes and _god _I wish I could die.

Sam jumped up first, grabbing my arm—I guess it was the only way to make me move now—and yanking me up with her, sending me to groan out loud. Pain exploded in my senses and I was _living _it again, except it was worse, trying to break free once more. Sam brought me to the steps outside my door, forcing me to sit down. "Breathe," she whispered in my ear. I tried, I really did. I even made myself remember how.

A hand rubbed my back. "You can't run away from it forever," she said, understanding why I acted the way I did. "Eventually, you'll have to talk to them again. Danny, you can still become a family—your mom and dad love you." Bitterness in her tone. If she didn't believe it, why should I? "Don't throw it away."

_In. Out. _After a few moments of gathering air inside my lungs, fresh air that didn't taste like the panic in my gut, I leaned back slightly, feeling the edge of the top stair against my sweating back. "Haven't you ever thought..." _In. Out. _"...that maybe we aren't a family anymore?"

Silence.

I continued. "There's this huge distance between us, Sam." I sounded hoarse and my voice felt thick and rough, the tongue forming words feeling foreign. I hated this feeling. "I—I can't close it, I can't just _forget _about it—" _No matter how much I want to, dear God I want to forget it all so much. _"—and they haven't been helping. Just...just _being _there kills me."

She shuddered, like my words physically hurt her. "Danny, I'm so sorry—"

"Clockwork won't change what happened," I interrupted her again, refusing to listen to apologies when she did nothing wrong. _It's my fault. _"I don't think he will. He knows that—that it happened...for a reason." I felt a lump at my throat, and it wasn't tears that was hot behind my eyelids. "I want to make it all disappear, Sam. You don't know how much I want all this to end."

She was so close, I could hear how she stopped breathing for a moment.

"Danny, you don't mean that you'll—" Sam shut her mouth closed, and I turned to her to see her eyes wide, fearful, but not _of _me but rather _for _me. I understood why.

"No, I wouldn't dare kill myself," I said, answering her unsaid question and calming her fear. The thought, however, did not leave my mind. "After all, who else would take care of this goddamn city?" There was no affection in my voice, no feeling, something that I was not surprised about anymore. I waved a calloused hand to the street before us, chuckling bitterly. "I can tell you now, this place'll be dead soon. No Danny Phantom, no professional ghost hunters—" No word of Vlad, Valerie, Guys in White, what can I say? "—once something hits, it'll all fall down."

Sam paused, thinking for a moment. Then, she said slowly, "I was thinking about that...Danny, are you ever going to turn back into Danny Phantom?"

Ah, him.

(_Is Danny Phantom even alive anymore?_)

Technically, he and I are the same. We're one, we're partners, we're the _same person. _Danny Phantom _is _Danny Fenton, but there was one key difference to them—Danny Phantom is hated. He's a ghost. _He'll never be accepted. _The revelation during those few moments where I was semi-conscious were brighter and clearer to me now. The very thought of it made me sick to my stomach. My parents—no matter what they said, the loved Danny _Fenton. _

They _hated _Danny Phantom.

They hated him so much that they would capture him and rip him apart, not even listening to his screams, not even listening to how many times he pleaded. No, they didn't even care. Because that was just it—they didn't love Danny Phantom like they loved Danny Fenton. Everything my parents said, I started to doubt.

What they told me two weeks ago, when I had finally gathered up the courage to talk to them, how could I know that it wasn't a lie? I've lied to them, they've lied to me, my world was just filled of sinful things. I hated myself for being this paranoid, but I couldn't help it. I was overridden with the fear that I would be strapped to that table again, with those eyes and those smiles and that pain engulfing me and numbing my senses again. Dear god, no. I can't take that again.

"Danny Phantom..." My voice repeated the name through my lips, feeling so foreign and so familiar at the same time. I looked down and fiddled with my fingers, unsure of everything at this point. Softly, I said to Sam, "I don't know...because honestly, I think Danny Phantom is _dead_."

.

_Falling._

_I was falling fast and hard in what seemed like a dark, deep abyss. There was nothing around me_—_no walls, no floors, no ceilings, no materialistic things that could tell me that I was still in the world of the living. I entered blackness and I left blackness, and that was the cycle I found myself going through. I don't recall whether my hands were reaching out or flailing or something of the sort—I can't really remember anything...not my name, who I am, what I was doing here..._

_What I was feeling was the adrenaline of free-fall. I don't think_ I _knew what was at rock bottom, but maybe I did in my subconscious or something, because I was afraid. I was so afraid, I don't think I realized how afraid I actually was. The darkness seemed to numb it a smidgeon. _

_"Why?" _

_There it was. The faintest voice I had ever heard, calling out from somewhere in here. I turned around, though I couldn't tell physically—everything just seemed the same. "Who's there?" _

_A whisper. "Why?" _

_I turned, realizing who it was and not liking it. "S-Sam?" True to my thoughts, it was the ultra recyclo vegetarian, staring at me while I fell, a nonexistent cry on her lips. Her eyes were panicked, but all she would say was "why?". I couldn't answer her. How could I answer her when I didn't even know why myself. _

_"I'm sorry," I said, hoping it out suffice, but it only seemed to add fuel to the fire. Her lilac eyes stared my way, turning a dark shade of violet. She snarled, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "Why? Why Danny? Why couldn't you stop all of this? Why couldn't you save me?" _

_ At first, I didn't understand what she was talking about—or maybe I did—but a familiar hand, blue-skinned, covered her mouth. Her eyes widened and she tried to scream as I stood there, helpless. A face popped from the shadows, looking un-distinctly like me. Crazed. Half-alive. Possibly out of his mind. _

_"Couldn't do it, huh?" _

_I choked. _

_Dan shrugged. "Not my problem, kid. I already got past the teenager phase." And if he had some sort of inside joke, he smiled. A large, feral smile that stretched to the corners of his mouth and revealed pointy teeth that I would have better luck avoiding in about twenty years. _

_Then he disappeared into thin air. _

_I was left standing—sitting? Floating?—there, unable to believe what happened. Then another voice added to the mix; "Freak." A voice that I knew by heart—the voice of my long time bully and enemy, Dash Baxter. I couldn't see him, but I could imagine his cocky smirk, the blonde hair that stuck up over the crowd which was a clear warning bell to run. And then another voice. "Freak." Paulina Sanchez. "Freak." Starr. "Freak." Valerie. After that, I couldn't tell you which one was which—it all crowded in my head even though I couldn't see them. _

_Over and over, they repeated themselves again and again, and I found myself curling up in a fetal position. I wanted to get them out. Please, get them out. I don't want this. I don't want to hear this. I know I'm a freak, I know I'm an abomination of nature, just get out get out get _OUT!

_"Who would ever want a son like you?" _

_My heart stuck in my throat. _Mom.

_I opened my eyes to see that she was pointing an ecto-ray at me, green and glowing, her eyes completely focused on me. Except, while I was still in Fenton form, she still looked disgusted. Unbelieving that I, a monster, was her son. Her aim was steady, her hand never shaking. There was a glint to her face, like she _wanted _to do this. _

_Desperate, my lips parted to say, "M-mom." _

_She glared harder if possible. "I would _never _want scum like you as my son! You filthy, disgusting _thing. _I would never accept you as my son. You are not my son." Her words, her eyes, the ecto-ray stuck in my face, it all hit a nerve within me. I felt as though I was falling fast, and she was right there to see me fall. _

_"M-m-mom!" _

_No answer. A green energy blast shot by me, and I knew that it was a matter of time before she got me anyways. I could barely breathe, it was taking it's toll on me that much. I felt as though if I wanted to die, at least it would be by her hands—her hands, the hands that held the same scalpel that tore me open—_

Sweating, I felt myself jerk out of bed so hard that I might've fallen through the mattress. Even if I did, I doubt anything would happen_—_as I've said before, there were no more secrets that hung around the house. Just the blatant truth that no one wanted to acknowledge.

The small sheen of sweat on my forehead was much more recognizable. I kicked off the covers, noticing that it was unbearably hot, and almost hurt myself while trying to get my shirt off. Even though I still had those bandages on, cool air hit my skin and I breathed a temporary sigh of relief, relishing the fact that _yes, _I was dreaming and _yes, _I know that my mother would never do that (_liar liar liar_) and _yes, _Jazz was _not _coming in with a straightjacket and chains. Dropping back unto the bed, I almost wished that she would. If something about her stupid 'psychology' could fix this, I would take it in a heartbeat.

But I knew things just weren't that simple; she wasn't going to get rid of these feelings inside me, this..._incessant _fear. She probably didn't even know, and that in itself caused a wave of guilt to crash through me, drowning me. Something that I had remembered...that ecto-ray, it's bright green blast...it should have hit me. Why didn't it?

What Sam had said yesterday still lingered in my mind, refusing to be forgotten. What about Danny Phantom? Back then, twelve hours ago, the answer was so clear; Danny Phantom died as soon as Danny Fenton did. He broke as soon as I did. Because we were the same person, we were the _same, _except for one huge difference that still knocked the wind out of me every time I thought about it; _they loved Fenton._ They would never accept Phantom.

I don't care what my mother and father said. They wouldn't. I just know they wouldn't, they don't. I can see it in their eyes every time one of them tries to talk to me. I'm sick of it. Danny Phantom is dead. Let the Guys in White and the Red Huntress flail around, trying to save the world of the box ghost.

Another thing I knew was that it wasn't that easy. Danny Phantom wasn't as dead as long as Danny Fenton wasn't dead, and literally_—_I was alive. But I was broken inside, I could feel it. I can't even _look _at my parent's faces without remembering. I can't do it, and that's what scares me the most, because I couldn't do it and I didn't _want _to do it. I don't want to see my parents. I'm not sure if I even love them anymore, and that was saying a lot. I wasn't sure of anything now.

The clock read 7:21 AM, just enough time to get to school. I pulled on clothes and ignored the little twinges, something that I had gotten good at now. We didn't go see a doctor or anything, but Jazz said it would take at least three more weeks before I could take off the bandages completely.

My feet tromping on the stairs heavily, Jazz looked up at me, teal eyes distracted as she thought over the information that she (no doubt) recently gained from the book in her hands. After a moment of standing there, she blinked. "Oh, Danny. Are you ready?" I nodded.

"Let's go." She closed her book with a _snap _and I internally winced, grabbing my bookbag and noticing that there was no breakfast on the table. I guess she expected me to be late today.

Once were were in the car, I turned to her. "No hassling?" I queried quietly. Jazz pursed her lips and shook her head.

"No matter what you think, I'm doing this for your own good, Danny," she said again, gentler this time. "You need someone to get you back on track..." The unsaid part was still as clear as day: _because even if you notice it or not, you're not acting normal. _And that's what everyone wanted these days: normal. Even me.

"I know. I just need some time. Not that big a deal."

She seemed like she wanted to protest about the last part, but then clamped her mouth firmly shut. A few minutes into the drive, though, Jazz started, "It may not seem like a big a deal to you_—_" _Lying. She knows I'm lying. _"_—_but it's a big of a deal to me. You're my brother, Danny. My baby brother. I care about you, no matter what you think."

I didn't answer her. What was I supposed to say?

"I can't go into biology for the semester," I said in hopes of conversation afterward. Jazz was just making me feel guilty, a tension in the air so thick you could cut it with the edge of a piece of paper. But just my luck, that happened to be the first thing that popped out of my mouth.

Jazz nodded though, her red locks flying. "I know. I've got a note."

"Another one?" I chuckled. "Wouldn't they get suspicious if mom kept writing notes?" There was a faint distaste in the way I said 'mom', which I internally cursed myself for.

"Mom didn't write the note," Jazz fought to keep her voice level. "I did."

_No. _

"But...you're the _good _student...and you need_—_"

"A signature, I know," she interrupted softly. "I forged it."

To say I was speechless was an understatement. Jazz never did anything wrong, didn't even _try _to get near the wrong side of the law, kept away from everything that had to do so. It was shocking_—_beyond shocking_—_to know what she had done. And obviously, it was bothering her greatly. Forging a signature was punishable by law, and I remembered the book she was reading has something to do with law. No wonder she was so antsy today.

I felt odd trying to comfort her. "Thanks, Jazz. Don't worry." Funny, wasn't this was she was telling me a few days ago?

She let out a sigh. "Yeah, I know. Just...be careful, okay?" With what, I wasn't sure. My secret? My fragile mental health? My interaction with my classmates? It was any of the above; probably all of them. "We're here."

Staring up at the large building I found it hard to get out of the car. "Danny?" Jazz's voice floated over, her noticing my hesitance to get out. (_What's wrong with me?_) A few minutes ago, I couldn't wait to get out of that car, out of that house. I wanted to be away from it all, and school was the distraction. That was what I had thought, anyways...but here, staring up at the white walls, I'm imagining more as a prison that a place to get away from it all.

The Ghost Zone...earth...a steady block began to form itself inside the corner of my brain. _When will it all end? _"I'm fine," I breathed. Even so, I reached out a hand and looked away from her, embarrassed. "C-can you help me up, though?" My legs felt numb. I couldn't move.

Jazz blinked, staring at me in shock_—_her eyes burning through me in stunned silence. Then, her face blossomed into a smile as if this was the greatest thing that had ever happened to her in her life. As she grabbed my hand enthusiastically_—_a little too hard, but I didn't mind_—_I was starting to think that this _was _the greatest thing in her life that's happened to her. (_So far. Just wait until she gets that acceptance letter to Harvard._)

"You head off to Mr. Lancer's class, okay?" she said chirpily, grinning ear to ear. "Just use Mr. Falluca's period for study hall or something. I'll take care of everything." Jazz clutched the note to her chest, looking positively happy. _What the hell is going on?_

While she skipped away, something came to me_—_a piece of Jazz's old psychology books that she left around the house. In the past two weeks, she had been reading them a lot. I remember one line that had burned it's way to the back of my mind: _If any sign of acceptance, help, or plain ignorance, then it can be a sign that your patient is letting themselves open up to you. _At first, I was afraid that mom and dad would do this and continue pestering me. Now it all made sense.

I felt slightly bad that I had tricked Jazz_—_no doubt, asking her to help me stand up meant something more to her_—_but I couldn't change it now. I'm not one of her patients, she must know that. But for some reason, the thought of me being just another case to her, like I was just another ghost to mom and dad_—well, it hurt more than it should._

Ignoring that, I walked up to Sam and Tucker this time. "Morning," I said quietly.

Sam looked toward me with surprise_—_what, it wasn't as if I went _mute _or something_—_and smiled. "Hey Danny. We're just thinking of what we should do for the Science Fair."

"What _I _should do," Tucker corrected. "Seeing as how you're just helping me brainstorm. I'll do all the work." He said it with a sort of final tone, like this was the judgement and no one was going to change his mind. Sam rolled her lilac eyes.

"He's determined to win by himself this year," she whispered, stressing the 'by himself' part. I felt myself grin faintly at the mention; last year, Tucker's project blew up on him at the last second and he couldn't back out now. So we entered in together. He never seemed to live that down, even though all of us won second place.

I nodded, understanding. "You'll do great, Tuck," I said while offering him a smile. It felt too fake on my face, and even _I _could tell my voice was hollow. Tucker nodded as if nothing happened, and I was internally grateful to him.

We entered the school hallways, still filled with people. I guess Jazz got us here earlier than expected. "You know, I heard Mr. Lancer is going to give us some ghost-related project today." Sam glanced at me. "I'm going to be doing Danny Phantom if her does."

Tucker snickered. "Sam, the whole _class _would be doing Danny Phantom. I would write it on Technus."

"That technology freak?" she snorted. Then, looking at Tucker's PDA bulging out of his pant's pocket, she grinned. "Well, I suppose it makes sense."

It took a minute for the hidden insult to sink in. "Hey!"

"What're you going to be doing it on, Danny?" Sam turned to me suddenly, eyes probing my every being. She was up to something, I knew it.

"The box ghost, probably," I shrugged lifelessly. "I'll just write his annoying traits all over the paper. Immediate A+." That didn't seem to be the answer she was looking for, and she turned away while crossing her arms grumpily. Tucker continued to blather on about incessant things.

_Danny Phantom is dead. _

(_Is he really?_)

This was going to be a long day.

.

English class was the worst, I'd have to say. Out of all the classes that had to be first on the agenda, it just had to be the class I hated most. And with the teacher that was much too observant for his own good.

As soon as I walked into the door, Mr. Lancer's eyes were on me and focused. He nodded at us, gave out detention, and started the lesson. However, it wasn't the lesson that I was worried about; at the beginning, before he even said 'good morning', the rumors cascading around the school was proven.

"You'll all be doing a presentation on ghosts," he said simply, and immediately chatter began. "Ah ah, I shall be choosing the ghost you'll be doing the project on _and _who your partners will be. No questions. Mr. and Mrs. Fenton were nice enough to give me a list of all the ghosts around here." I internally flinched; had my parents really done that? It must've been from a while ago. I don't think they were in the shape to be doing anything _related _to ghosts. (_Or maybe they're just stronger than you are. Maybe they don't care._)

It was five minutes in until my name was called first. "Danny Fenton, Samantha Manson...and Starr Winslet." Once again, I felt something constricting in my throat. Sam gave out a cry of pain, while Starr gasped and looked to be on the verge of tears. I said nothing.

"But Mr. Lancer_—_can't I be with Paulina? Or Valerie? Or Dash, even?" She was desperate, it showed in her eyes. Sam wasn't excluded from that. "Yeah! Why can't we work with Tucker? We do great projects together!" I was in no mood to debate. My mind lingered on the ghost he was going to pick for us_—_no doubt, it was Danny Phantom.

"I said no questions," Mr. Lancer's eyes flashed. "And that means no objections, either. Ms. Manson, Ms. Winslet, you need to understand the meaning of unity, of working with other people than just those of your own friends. Understand others, Ms. Winslet. That goes for you as well, Ms. Manson." Both girls sat down grumpily, somewhere in their objections standing up in protest.

Mr. Lancer glanced my way. "After all, it seems as though Mr. Fenton doesn't seem to have anything against it."

It was almost like a shift in the atmosphere. Everyone's eyes were on me, waiting to see what I would do. I swallowed thickly; this brought memories of those flashing blurs, the harsh glare of the surgeon's light. "I don't particularly care," I said hoarsely, wincing how unused my voice sounded. "Can we just know which ghost we're doing it on?"

Mr. Lancer blinked, apparently not expecting that answer. The class shifted back at my vague reply. "Ah...well, it's your lucky day. Your ghost is_—_" _Me. _"_—_Danny Phantom."

Starr squealed, Sam sighed, Tucker was quiet, and the rest of the class whined. I shrugged, uncaring. (_it's all your fault_—_ghostghostghostghosthalf-deadhalf-alive why didn't you tell them?_) My own jumble of thoughts was surprising to even me. I licked my dry lips and tried to forget it all, ignoring the fact that the fluorescent lights of the classroom reminded me all too much of the glint in my parents' eyes before hell ensued.

After English class_—_some boring lecture on _Midsummer's Night Dream_—__Starr grabbed Sam by the shoulder while she was getting her books in order, taking her hand away immediately when she realized what she did. Sam flinched, looking disgusted. I stared at them. "We'll need a place to do the project," she said coldly. "You will come over to my house to do it, understand? After all, I know Danny Phantom best." Her voice returned to an oddly soft tone at the end, and Sam made a disgusted noise.

Starr glared at her. "Whatever," I mumbled. Sam nodded imperceptibly, possibly thinking that it was better than going to her house with the social status and image obsessed mother or my house with the broken family and unsolved tension. Starr marched off to Paulina, where she seemed back to her bubbly self.

"I would love to squeeze that little neck of hers," Sam growled. Tucker placed an arm on her shoulder in sympathy.

"At least you'll have Danny," he said in a way of comfort. _I doubt I'll be much help. _"I have to do it with _Kwan _and _Valerie,_" he shuddered, possibly thinking of the punches Kwan will give him or the risk of him slipping something to Valerie. Speaking of her, she didn't seem all that happy either.

"I don't care." I repeated, thinking it would get through.

Sam nodded, but it didn't look like she agreed. "Yeah, I'll_—_we'll be fine."

(_your fault your fault your fault blue eyes and haunting smiles_)

I flinched.

_I'm starting to get tired of these thoughts. _But they repeated themselves in my head...over and over...and over, like a song that went on and on. Voices in my head. Was it my own voice? Was I going insane? It was either one or the other or both. I'd rather both. At least I'd have someone to talk to while being stuck in a big white room with no windows.

Tugging on the shirt sleeves of my friends, I murmured, "I think we should be going to class now. Mrs. Lee is glaring at us."

After school, Sam tugged me away from Tucker. I caught Jazz's eye outside of the school. She sent me a questioning look, but I jerked my head toward Sam and understanding dawned in her eyes, her offering me a small smile. Off to the side, I could see Dash staring at her wistfully.

_Disgusting._

(—_not our son—_)

Starr glared at us when we caught up to her, sneering. "What do you think you losers are doing?"

"Following you," Sam shot back, her eyes on the offensive. "What? Do you expect us to know where your house is? Use your brain, blondie." Venom in her voice. I shifted and tried not to recognize the fact that I was hearing some things I shouldn't have. (_"Lying, disgusting, filthy monster!_")

_No emotions..._

Starr blinked, momentarily losing her cool. "O-oh." She turned to glance at Paulina and Dash, who were off on the opposite side of the courtyard. "Well...fine. Just don't say anything to _anybody _when we get there." She turned around and started to walk off haughtily. Sam's nose crinkled in distaste, before she turned her eyes to me and said softly, "Do you want to go?"

"I don't want to go home," I murmured back.

She pursed her lips in worry, but nodded. Letting my shirt go, she started to walk hesitantly and I filled in the steps behind her. As I my footsteps followed the softer ones of Starr and the heavy ones of Sam, I noticed that I was slightly taller than both of them. When did that happen? Standing next to Sam, the top of her head reached my nose. And that was it.

I wanted to burst out into insane giggles, that's what I felt like. I had so many problems—hell, I was probably developing _more—_and here I am, thinking about the miracles of puberty. Really. Just the unnatural aura of it all made me want to laugh. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was because I _knew _that I wouldn't be the same again that this was happening to me. Because now even the most normal of things made me wonder how I managed to survive up to this point.

Sixteen years.

(_Am I alive?_)

Who's dead? Me, or the ghost me? Literally, I was half-dead. My skin was colder than the rest. I was paler than the rest. I knew that. My heartbeat was slower. My blood pressure was lower. I wasn't rotting or anything, I wasn't walking around screaming 'brains!'. I was just...living, this whole time, while being dead. Now I'm still living, but I really have to ask myself—am I alive?

Danny Phantom didn't survive without Fenton. Was he dead too, hypothetically? Because all this time, I felt like...something has been happening to me. Nothing mutant, nothing huge like a toxic spider biting me. But like...I've been changing at an accelerating rate, and I wasn't stopping anytime soon. I was looking through a mirror, it was what it seemed like. I was seeing everything from my safe point far, far away. I was scared.

I was so freaking _terrified. _

I didn't want anything like that to happen again. I didn't want to be out here, in the open, where I could be captured. Every second my nerves burned with overexposure. It almost felt like I was drowning, flailing underwater, searching for something that wasn't there—air. I couldn't breathe, half the time, because I remembered how _bare _I felt on that table. That feeling scared me...so somehow, I had managed to lock myself in my subconscious all this time.

It didn't feel like I was doing anything, but it did feel like I was drowning. Suffocating, somehow, even though there was no water and I could breathe just fine. It just...felt that way. The feeling of having everything close around you. I had to blink, bumping into Sam, who had stopped suddenly because Starr had stopped suddenly.

We were in front of one of those small, friendly houses that looked like the miniature version of a townhouse, complete with a picket fence. Sam kept her mouth shut, evidently surprised that it wasn't some sort of blown-up mansion or something, but Starr opened the gate—well, there was that, so it counted as a rich house for me—and shooed us in.

The inside was fine enough. Almost like we had gotten away from the semi-suburban/urban city of Amity Park and entered a total...I dunno, a plain from Texas or something. It was just like a whole other era, nothing like Sam's modern home. However, grudgingly Sam seemed to like it. Simply and easy things—even if she wasn't a valley girl (_perish the thought_)—were more her style.

Starr shouted, face pink, "Mom! I'm going to be in the living room with...some people from school for a project!" There was an answer that was probably from her mother.

"I'm still surprised you let us in without a weapon check," Sam commented, moving back in small steps so that she would stand beside me. Sam may have liked Starr's house (_why are we here? why am I here?_) but something about it made me feel like I wanted to throw up.

(_danny phantom is deaddeadeadeadeadeadeadalive_)

And I couldn't have a break, could I?

"I want to finish this as fast as possible," the blonde started in a clipped, military like tone. "So we're going to figure out how we do this, print it on poster board or something, then turn it in. I am _not _going to spend more time with you losers than necessary."

"Ditto," Sam snorted. "I just have one condition. You—" she pointed at Starr, "—are going to help, whether you like it or not. We have to figure out a way to get this project done, divide the information up into three quarters, and then we'll never talk again." It seemed like there was a war between them I didn't know about. At school, Starr just seemed like the bubbly, air-headed and stupid little puppy of Paulina's. Now I'm wondering if it's an act.

But then again, aren't we all acting? Unbidden, my mind whirled back to my parents, their merciless words that kept attacking me at every interval. I thought about how mom cried, how it seemed like a ghost was haunting her every move, except it was more of a demon than a ghost. I thought about dad, and how he just seemed so _broken _nowadays. I thought about Jazz, who kept on sacrificing everything—her time, he resources, her _happiness—_for my sake. I was ruining my family.

(_They ruined you first._)

And what was worse was that I couldn't deny it.

"Danny, you agree, right?" Sam turned to me, expectant, hands on her hips. Starr was staring at me as well. I looked back and forth between them, slightly lost, internally curling up within myself while on the outside I simply shrugged.

"I just don't want to go home." _Please don't make me face them._

Sam's brow creased, and her eyes took that similar soft quality. I've never noticed, but it always did when she was talking to me. "Okay. Not now." _You'll have to, one day. _

"Oh...kay..." Starr looked back and forth between us, evidently confused. "Let's get this over with."

.

It was dusk when we left the A-lister's house, Sam sticking close to my side. The close proximity freaked me out a little—_ghostly white skin and a pale, soft glow that was my own—_but I managed to hold down my fear and walk forward, not saying anything. One step in front of the other. Her boots clinked on the pavement as we came across the block before the street which her mansion was located on.

"You know you can always tell me anything, right?" she said quietly.

"You and Jazz," I replied in a monotonous voice. "Please, can we stop talking about it?"

She pursed her lips, but didn't say more. Talking about it, having it in the open...it did something to me. It was enough to have to know that it already happened...but saying it out loud, it was like making a declaration. That, _hey! Your parents subdued your to merciless torture! Face the truth! _The truth. Exactly the last thing I _wanted _to face, really. I just didn't want to face it, I admit.

But to be honest, I doubted that either of my parents wanted to face it either. We all wanted to move on, to skip the 'realize and recovery' process. The bygones be bygones, let he past be the past, but as much as we—I tried, it refused to move. Even now, I could understand the fact that I was going through life with an uncaring attitude. It wasn't worth it—I had lost my path. Where am I going? What am I aiming for? _What's going to happen now? _

(_I hate scum like you_.)

I could have cried.

That was something else—no one would be able to understand. Jazz, no matter how hard she tried to understand, wouldn't. She just couldn't get why I wanted to be alone, why I denied seeing shrinks or asylums or just a therapist. I don't _want _to talk about it. I don't _want _help. The thing I wanted was to be left alone.

It seemed that I couldn't get that, even.

Every morning, getting up, just _breathing _was painful. It was hard to know that you were the living remnants, the broken shards and pieces of a possible murder trial. No, not murder—_scientific discovery. _Because that's all I was to them. I was not their son. I was not Danny. I was just the ghost they hated most, the ghost they managed to get their hands on. I was just the one who had the most unfortunate luck in the word to be mentally tortured. It was me, it was me.

(_It's all your fault._)

It's me.

The sun started to go down behind the hills, Sam said something that I didn't process before going into the confines of her own home, and I continued walking a desolate road. No one was out. I couldn't hear a single soul before me, not a single voice. Hah, was I really gone for that long? How much time had passed? It felt like years, not weeks, centuries, not hours.

I wanted it all to end. I just...wanted it to stop. I just _really _wanted it to stop. Because to myself, I was a living reminder of what could have happened. _Half dead. _I'm half _dead. _Wasn't it about time I started to act like it? _Boy, would Jazz have a field day if she heard my thoughts. _My poisonous thoughts. I could feel it seeping through my veins, corrupting every moment, making me remember and making me want to forget. It was only five houses until my own.

The scars on my chest would be there forever. Forget it if they heal—the mark, the memory, it will _always _be there, and I think _that _would be the end of me, rather than any ghost or evil plot Vlad could come up with. I would destroy myself—I couldn't help it. A dry, bubbly laugh crawled up my throat and came out as a cough. And here I thought I would die by the hands of my mother and father. Four houses.

In a way, I wished for more than anything...that this never happened. That I, my parents, Jazz, all of use, would go back to the way it was. That we'd pretend it never happened. That I would never find out that my parents would _hate _me if they ever knew I was Phantom. (_"I love you. My baby...I love you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry..."_)

_LIES. _

Three houses.

I didn't want to hear it anymore. I didn't care if my own parents were scared of me or scared of what I would be or what I am. I don't care if they're scared of themselves or what they've done or if they would ever do it again. I just wanted to be alone. I just wanted this all to end. Was it so much to ask for?

(_I just wanted to be accepted_)

I just wanted to find a place in this world that seemed like it had no place for me.

Two houses.

_We'll tear you apart, you filthy ghost._

I desperately hoped that I wouldn't have to see the sunrise the next morning. I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to face it's light.

_Molecule..._

One house.

_...by molecule! _

Gritting my teeth, I opened the door to my house—(_was it really?_)—and entered, trying not to feel sickened by it's presence. No one was around, not a single thing out of place, like a ghost had been through here and left as soon as possible. Not a single sign of Jazz, even. My ears were accompanied by silence.

I would rather stay in the vicinity of my own mind, where everything was cold and unfamiliar. I would rather curl up and stick myself beneath a table or some other place where no one could find me. I wanted to just run blindly away from everything. If only. If only the sun didn't come up for another day. If only I could forget everything. If only I could fix this. _If only they didn't hate me. _

If only I had stayed in the darkness...I could still pretend that this was all a dream.


	3. part ii

_In London, accented, happy, leg fixed, yay? Thank you for waiting for so long and I'm sorry for not updating sooner. Makes me a real bastard, doesn't it? *sigh* It's just..I dunno, I've been in an original mood for some reason. I swear it has to do with sci-fi movies. Stupid _Treasure Planet_..._

_Anyways, just enjoy the new chapter. All angst of it. :) It's a bit shorter, so I hope you guys can forgive me with the contents...dedicated to Laura (Fuocoso) and Katie (AnneriaWings) because they kept bugging me to finish this and that was the only reason why I did. XD  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>requiem<strong>_  
>i hear you singing<br>_i hear the tinkle of your laugh_  
>i hear the way tears fall<br>_[**part ii**]

* * *

><p><em>My chest hurts.<em>

That was what I kept thinking throughout the whole day.

In the beginning, classes were switched a bit—you know, math came first, science came fourth—so second period, we had gym. Nothing huge. I just noticed that when I was changing now, there was no one stuffing me inside lockers. I wasn't being called out. My gym clothes didn't disappear. I don't know if Dash and his buddies decided that I wasn't worth it anymore or maybe I looked much worse than I thought I did, but I was grateful.

I changed in the bathroom stalls. I still had those bandages around me, even though the wound was close to healing. But I'd rather that I wouldn't have to look at it all the time, so keeping it tied up with better. I would probably keep it under gauze even when it _did _heal.

We had dodge ball today. I stood to the side and let my body mechanically move itself, side to side, whenever a ball came my way. I didn't try to catch any or throw any back. I don't think I was in the right mind to do something like that. Suffice to say though, I wasn't paying attention. And Dash must have decided that he had his day's worth of being nice, because the next thing I know I've been hit in the chest—_hard—_and now I'm on the floor.

It hurts much more than I expected. Like—well, like someone hitting me in the chest with a ball. But for a second, I seriously forgot how to breathe. It hurt that much. Something felt like it ripped, along with that small feeling of pain that you usually get**—**except this time, it was like it was magnetized. I saw stars for a few moments.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Danny, you okay?" It was Coach Tetslaff, looking worried. "You look a bit winded—oh my god!" Coach took her hand away, only to come back with blood on her fingers. Immediately, the guys jerked back, like it was toxic poisoning.

Her features screwed up in anger. She clenched her fist. "_Baxter!_" she roared loudly, and I saw Dash flinch in horror, looking at her and then me. Some part of me was satisfied that Dash was going to be punished, but the rest of me was just feeling pain. _Blood. _Tearing.

_Uh oh. _

I bolted up, putting my hand on the place Coach's was a second later. In my haze, I noticed that my hand was tainted with spots of red; copper filled my sense. I felt something in my gut wrench, but blamed it on the fact that I had gotten up too quickly.

"I'm fine," I rasped out quickly, looking around to see where the exit is. "Really, I am."

"Fine?" Coach repeated, incredulous. "_That, _Mr. Fenton, is _not _fine. Why, you look like you've broken something—! Are those stitches?"

People turned to gape and I realize that the shirt had slipped down some. I pulled the collar up to cover the wound. _They can't know. They can't they can't they can't. _I turned and ran, the first thing that was on my mind. _Jazz. _Find Jazz. She could fix this. She could fix everything.

_No she can't. And you know it. _(_And you believe it._)

I swallowed the lump in my throat. This was no time for that other voice that seemed to be popping up often. So far, my only lifeline has been Jazz. I knew—_hell I knew so well—_that she wouldn't be able to fix this. But my sister had some sort of calming affect on me. The only family member that didn't hate me. That accepted me. I could live with that. My guess was that I wanted reassurance that I would be fine. Jazz gave me that.

_I'm so pathetic. _

Not even bothering to go to the nurse's office, I burst right into Mr. Lancer's class, which Jazz was currently in right now. Mr. Lancer took one look at my bloodied shoulder and his eyes widened. "Mr. Fenton, what in God's name—"

"Can Jazz come home with me?" I blurted out. Some people snickered. I didn't know why. I was floating in a red-hot haze. "Please?" I added. Mr. Lancer's eyes were trained on my bloody shoulder. I heard the shuffling of books and a chair scraping the floor before a hand took my arm and lead me away from the classroom.

Once Jazz was sure that we were alone, she whispered, "What happened?"

"Stitch...open..." I murmured, looking at her meaningfully. She pursed her lips, brow furrowed in worry, before nodding. "Come on. I'll call Tucker and ask him to take your stuff home for you." There was something pained in her eyes, and for a second, I had a split second fear that she didn't want to deal with me. That I was being a burden to her.

_Of course. Jazz has all those high level classes. She can't afford to miss them or else it'll look bad on her college resume..._The familiar sentence edged it's way into my mind, having heard it from the source so many times before. But this time, there was something malicious about it. Like it was said in a way to get me guilty. And it worked. I felt my chest hurt again, but it wasn't because I was cut open. No, it felt like someone kept squeezing my lungs and it was hard to breathe.

I didn't say anything as she drove me home, pressing her handkerchief to the spot where the stitching started. It was slowly becoming soaked, but the bleeding stopped after a while. I felt a bit dizzy, though, and stumbled when I had to get out of the car. I got a few weird looks, seeing as how I was in PE clothes and was bleeding, but no one said anything as Jazz brought me back inside the house.

It was quiet, as usual. I didn't ask where my parents were, and Jazz didn't inform me. This was starting to become something of a ritual; don't ask, don't tell, don't meet, don't talk. A part of me ached to know that my parents didn't want to see me, but another part was astonishingly fine with the whole thing, partly paranoid that I would be strapped to a table once more and forced to undergo less than wanted procedures.

Jazz murmured softly to me, little considerate words, while I felt myself float off. I barely registered the fact that she held me down while I pressed a cloth to my wound, disappearing for a moment before coming back with a thread and needle and other things that were needed for skin-stitching. I didn't look at her while she concentrated on it, eyebrows furrowed. In fact, I had the strangest feeling when I closed my eyes and tried to forget about it all.

It was almost like I was floating in an abyss of nothing. Just floating. Nothing bothered me, nothing made a move. I was breathing steadfastly on air, an addicting numb-ness that filtered through my body and made me feel..._better._ No pain, no nerves, no senses. It felt..._exhilarating. _For a brief, terrifying moment, I wondered if this was how it felt to be dead. To be a ghost.

Jazz's soft inquiry of, "Danny," woke up me up from my little daydream. I jerked a bit before remembering that it wasn't the best of ideas, but it was fine; Jazz was done. She smiled at me, a bit strained. Her eyes were begging for me to understand something, anything, but I didn't know what she wanted. "Danny..." she started again, before saying, "W-we need to get you to a professional, Danny." I wasn't sure if I remembered how to breathe for a second. "I'm not sure if you're ready with mom and dad touching you that intimately yet, and I'm not a doctor. We...we need to get you to a doctor."

A pause.

"I don't want to go." I croaked out, but that was probably the answer that she predicted. Jazz bit her lip. "I know, Danny, I know." She sighed, weary, and I felt my heart go out to her. "If this gets out...God, who knows what could happen to you?" The added, _to our family _was gone unsaid. I knew what would happen; mom and dad would be taken in for 'abusing' me. "But I don't know what else to do. Danny, I just don't..." she sucked in a breath, looking like she was on the verge of tears.

Awkwardly, I shifted, ignoring the blood-stained shirt that was on my side. I patted her shoulder for a moment as she sobbed, before flinching and bringing her into a hug, hesitantly. I heard Jazz's breath hitch in surprise. "It's going to be o-okay," I mumbled, but even I was unsure of myself. "Everything is going to be fine."

_Liar. _

Jazz let out something between a choked sob and a waterlogged chuckle. "I should be telling that to you, idiot," she sniffed. There was a weak, teasing lilt to her voice though, so I knew she was collecting herself again. "Danny, do you mind if we..."

Her hesitation only caused me to prod on further, even though my chest was hurting and the embrace felt oddly cold. "Yeah? What?"

Jazz broke away from me now, looking me fully in the eyes. "I don't want to do this," she admitted quietly, and I felt my heart drop into my stomach. "Danny...you know I love you, right?" Her eyes softened at this, and I nodded, understanding her facial expression, begging, pleading, needing me to understand. "I think..." she took a deep breath. "I think it'll be a good idea...if we talked about this to Vlad."

I'm not sure what had happened there, to me, right then, but I can explain it like this: it was like someone had taken a dull-bladed knife and shove it deep in my chest, then twisted it. I know that it wasn't what was happening to me, but the...the first thing that came into my mind (_betrayal_) was that Jazz had gone insane or maybe I had gone insane because what she said couldn't have been true. After a moment of silence, though, I couldn't bring myself to be mad. Not an ounce of fury had rose in me; she was staring at me with those prying eyes, gauging my reaction.

Finally, I said, "Why?"

It wasn't what she was expecting, that's for sure. She seemed taken aback for a moment, before clearing her throat and saying, "Well...he's the only other person who might be able to understand." She gripped my arm lightly. "Danny, you aren't eating, responding, you aren't being _you. _You're ruining yourself, everyone can see it." Jazz pursed her lips. "Vlad...is not my first option for things like this, but...he's a halfa too. He might know why you aren't—why you—y'know..._healing._ Both physically and mentally. Because, Danny, this isn't working out, and you know it."

Despite all of this, I knew she had a point. "Vlad wouldn't help," I replied tonelessly. "He could never help. He doesn't understand." But a part of me—the same, malicious part of me that wanted to keep my parents away—knew that Vlad wouldn't sink as low as that. He wouldn't have _dreamed _to do something like this.

"I know he wouldn't understand," Jazz said softly. "But...let me call him? Please?" I didn't understand what was going through Jazz's head, how she thought that seeing _Vlad _could possibly help me right now. He was the last person on this earth that I wanted to talk to right now. However, something in my sister's voice was begging, desperate, sure of herself.

Knowing that I should just let it go, I sighed and leaned back. "Fine." I agreed. Then, hasty for a change of topic, I asked, "What about the stitches? They have to come out sometime." Jazz couldn't do that. A professional doctor—or, hell, my parents—would have to do that. I didn't want to see mom and dad, though, knowing that we were treading on a delicate balance.

She just pursed her lips. "I'll see about that." Then, pushing me back into bed, she said, "Now you rest, alright? I'll...I'll inform the school that you won't be coming tomorrow."

I wanted to protest that _who said I won't be going tomorrow?_ But I was way too tired to do anything, instead choosing to lay back and letting a dreamless sleep take me away.

.

The smell of something burning wafted into my nose, and I blinked open my eyes wearily. I was still in an awkward position from last night, my whole body slightly crooked and my back leaning against a pillow on the side. Trying to get up, I noticed that my chest twinged slightly and I winced, pressing on the area out of habit and feeling the pain increase. Letting out a breathless sigh, I forced myself to get up and sit down and found that the pain had lessened considerably.

My whole body felt stiff, though. I stretched, hearing the satisfying _pop _of my bones shifting into place, of my muscles making themselves of use. It was the most normal I had felt all day, if there was something as 'normal' for me anymore.

Finding myself robotically doing everything I usually did for the rest of the morning, I let my thoughts drift over to what I thought earlier; _normal. _Two years ago 'normal' would be getting homework, a beating by Dash, hanging out with Sam and Tucker at the movies or the Nasty Burger, even though now _that _also held bad memories. Then 'normal' was getting homework and not doing it, getting detention and getting beat up by Dash (more) and fighting ghosts, keeping my secret from the world at the same time. I don't know when that changed, but I knew that it must have been something to do with the responsibility. Looking back now, it seemed like the more that the ghost-hunting continued, the more desperate I was to protect everything I loved.

Now, I really couldn't care less if the town fell to shambles. Everything just hurt and I wanted it to stop.

The fact that I haven't touched a Fenton thermos in weeks escaped my mind until now. I know that it's in my backpack, a never-wavering weapon to capture all of the dangers that seemed to be attracted to this town like a magnet. I forgot about it, but it's presence in my bag, that weight, it was like it was getting heavier day by day. The more I was putting on myself, at least.

While I was almost done brushing my teeth, I noticed that my face was probably more worse for the wear; haggard, I looked older than just a measly sixteen. My lips were dry, dark circles hung from the bottom of lifeless eyes. Pale skin that seemed paler under the dark limp of hair on top of my head, uncombed. My cheeks were slightly gaunt. I seemed to flicker in and out of existence—ironically—like a ghost, but not ones made of ectoplasm and post-consciousness. Like a spirit that's been sucked out and left here. I touched my face in the mirror and wondered why I was so obsessed with this town, with protecting, until something like this happened. Until I broke, but not in the way that I was expecting—I was supposed to break myself, not let my parents do the job for me.

Odd, how two years ago I wouldn't have dreamed that all of this would happen to me. Two years ago, I still dreamed that I would fly into space and send moon rocks to my parents for their birthdays.

_My parents. _

I froze in mid-step, the realization creeping in like something godawful. _Jazz isn't here. My parents are. _

Damn it.

_Damn it!_

If this was her plan from the start—I swear to god—anger built up inside of me, and I relished it, liked how it felt after days of feeling nothing and numb all over. It spread throughout like a wild fire, like hot water coursing over my body, but then I remembered it was _Jazz _and she was always there when I needed her most. Today was school, and I was holding her back enough, wasn't I thinking that just this morning? She had a life that didn't revolve around me. I was the one that was sticking behind, dejected and lost.

It was time that I started to make up for all the help that she's given me—even though I know it's not something I could ever repay. It was a fleeting thought too, a simple pinprick of all the darkness clouded in my head, but it lingered as I walked downstairs, following the burning smell of vanilla that woke me up in the first place.

Mom and dad were in the kitchen, dad sitting down on one of the table chairs, reading the newspaper and drinking coffee. His eyes were roaming the inked letters vigorously, like his life depended on it. I stood at the doorway, watching him, noticing how remarkably similar out colouring was—down to the pale skin and dark circles, even though I had mom's features.

She was standing in front of stove, working almost mechanically, although I couldn't see her face. Mom brought up a spatula and slid another pancake to the adding pile on the plate; against my own will, I felt my mouth go dry. It's been such a long time since mom cooked.

It seemed so bland, so dead in the kitchen with the still air, that I felt the inexplicable need to clear my throat and say, "G-good morning." Unfortunately, I wouldn't stop being nervous around their presence for a while. My voice was small and brittle (something I loathed) but dad's head snapped out and life sprang back into his eyes. Mom turned around too, startled, but then she relaxed when it was just me.

"Danny!" my dad boomed, like he usually did, though there was something strained in his eyes. "Come sit, son. Your mom's made her famous pancakes and the scent has been driving me crazy." He motioned to any spot on the table, knowing that I uncomfortable with the scenario. Truth be told, I winced when he called me 'son'—

(—_most certainly not our son—_)

—but it was small and I don't think they noticed that their engrained words had surfaced once more. They were trying so hard, so hard to get me to trust them again, after loosing it all in one enormous, shocking night. I felt sympathetic for them, but I couldn't just snap and say that I trusted them again, and everything would be fine. Granted, I love them more than anything, but things like that don't tend to fade easily.

"Now, Jack," mom started distractedly, glaring at dad when he made a motion to go to the fridge, "You know that I said no fudge in the morning."

"But fudge goes with everything!" dad whined, and I felt a flicker of emotion pass through me—nostalgia? I ignored it at sat down at the table, two seats away from dad, in Jazz's seat. There was another seat next to me before the one mom usually sat in was held. I figured it was a good place to sit.

Mom turned around and pointed her spatula at him. "No." she said firmly, turning back around while dad pouted.

I was still, stunned, but not because of mom's non-tolerance to dad's cravings. No, because when my mom turned around, I noticed that she wasn't wearing her jumpsuit. What usually took place of blue spandex was a long sleeved, loose shirt of the same colour and jeans that blended in perfectly. I hadn't even noticed, passing through with a first glance, but now it was obvious—and different—and I didn't know how to feel about it.

I looked at dad and saw the same thing; an orange shirt the same colour as his jumpsuit, long sleeved, looking like it was knitted at a close proximity. He was wearing black pants and boots. It was odd, seeing my parents this way, and it felt sort of empty seeing them like this.

During the duration of my childhood, I always saw them in their HAZMAT suits, ready for anything that came their way. I once thought of them as superheroes; could you blame me? They were always ready in that get-up. I was so accustomed to them wearing their usual colours of blue and orange that I couldn't think of them ever wearing anything else in their life, much less owning something else as well. Seeing them like that...surprisingly, the nervousness had calmed a bit. I blinked, noticing that the anxious feeling of _red eyes and merciless, curious probing smiles and unforgiving _was a bit diluted. Something in the way that they dressed as scientists freaked me out. Now they dressed like...normal people, and it didn't.

And that freaked me out all over again.

No doubt Jazz had some sort of part to play with this, but as I felt oddly satiable I couldn't find myself to think more on the topic. Mom slid a plate in front of me, smiling slightly and hesitating before reaching out and touching my head, ruffling my hair. My initial reaction was stiffening up, but then I relaxed and let her do it.

_She wouldn't hurt me. _

(_She would._)

Then mom seemed like something had lit up her whole world, and she sat by dad, beaming at me, at dad, at the table, at everything. I felt a pang of guilt—no doubt me obviously avoiding them must've hurt them to a exponential degree—but to actually be as happy as _that _just because I let her—let her have a close moment?

Yeah, there was no doubt that I felt guilty. I mean, I should have at least tried, but these past few days it felt like it wasn't worth it at all, that I had messed up the family and it was going to forever stay this way. But seeing my parents—so obviously uncomfortable in their civilian clothes but trying so hard for me—it made something in me burst and squelch painfully. At least they were trying to fix it. I wasn't doing anything at all.

So, with a shuddering breath and gathering up all the courage I could, I smiled—an act that felt foreign on my face—and said, "Did you see the weather outside?"

.

After that conversation, I didn't see my parents for a good chunk of the rest of the week. I mean, you would think that they would talk to me more after our conversation that one morning, but they didn't. It didn't seem odd to me for the first few days until I told Jazz and she pointed it out with a frown. It wasn't like I cared much anyways. I felt safe, a bit more comfortable in the house, almost like when you stay at a person's house after a few weeks and start to get used to life that way.

Jazz still met up with me at breakfast, looking better than she had on most days, but with a worried frown on her face. I took a bite of cereal, even though I honestly wasn't hungry. "What's wrong?" I asked her casually after I was finished.

Jazz jerked, as if I had shocked her or something out of her trance. "O-oh, nothing," she said, offering me a fake smile. "I'm just...a bit stressed out, that's all. I have all my finals and things, nothing big to worry about, and then there are some papers I need to sign..." she was trailing off, a crease forming between her brow, and I ignored the guilty pang inside me and nodded. Jazz was still Jazz, no matter what.

It was a short drive to school, not that big, but I found that we were sitting in the car far longer than the usual five minutes. It took a few moments, but I realized that we had passed the football stadium of the school, which was at the back yard, which meant that Jazz had given complete disregard to the fact that we passed school.

I sat up straighter. "Jazz," I started, looking at her, realizing that her grim face and guilty glances my way actually _meant _something. Realization dawned. "Where are you taking me?" I demanded, panic starting to creep in.

"I.." she spoke, before biting her lips and shaking her head. "I can't stand to see you like this, Danny." Her lower lip trembled. "I made an appointment with Vlad; I haven't told him anything, but I told him it was urgent and—..."

She looked like she was about to cry. I felt bad, but I also felt angry. "What?" I said loudly. "I thought—Jazz, I can't—what were you thinking?"

"You said I could!" she shot back, and I winced when I realized she was right; I _did _say yes all those days ago and forgot about it. Maybe I supposed that Jazz had given up, let time heal itself, but obviously it hadn't. She was just waiting until the right time came along. She sniffed. "I don't know what kind of luck I got to actually get him to agree, but he did."

I leaned back in my seat, frowning. "Maybe he heard you not cursing him out for once and thought that was an oddity in itself." I said bitterly, a pathetic attempt at joking sarcasm.

Jazz heard it and gave a watery smile. "Don't forget the fact that I was practically begging."

I quieted down, musing in my own thoughts, Jazz looking at the road purposefully and with determination held in her gaze. It occurred to me how much she had changed; no more was the nagging sister that I remembered in sixth grade, but instead Jazz and I had a connection where we understood each other in a way that ran deeper than the usual sibling rise. It was nice to know that I trusted her so much and knowing that she would never betray that trust, but it also made me think—Jazz and I weren't like that until the problem of Phantom had come up and messed up our lives.

Phantom. Danny Phantom. The name had sent a bitter taste through me for a few days after I enjoyed the perks of being a superhero and then understood the strain that came along with it. Because of Phantom, I had come to this—broken, empty, blindly stumbling through the days not knowing what the hell I was going through. I couldn't help but be a little resentful; sometimes, days like these make me wish that I had never turned on the Ghost Portal at all, but then I knew the aftermath of _that _decision already.

Vlad's Illinois home was much too close for my liking. I didn't comment, however, but let Jazz lead me to the gates of the large villa. There was a short moment where the buzzer person—y'know, a speaker and a person who asks if you have an appointment—let us through, and we had to walk for about two minutes before we got to the door.

A butler answered, prim and proper, stiff. "Mr. Masters will see you in the parlor," he said. "If you'll follow me."

We followed him through the large living room—even in a guest home, Vlad still had to be gaudy—and downstairs to the "parlor". whatever the hell that is. There was a lit chandelier above us, even though it was day time. The windows were from ceiling to halfway-down-to-floor and had white curtains with gold stitching. All the things in the room were pale and accented with gold or royal blue, except for Vlad Masters himself, sitting on one of the sofas with a dark suit and graying hair tied back.

His eyes flickered to Jazz and then to me, and I found myself having the urge to punch him, move into a defensive stance, but my body wouldn't listen. Following behind Jazz like a lost puppet, I didn't complain when Vlad stared at me with such intensity that it made shivers break out under my skin. I sat next to my redheaded sister without a word, close enough to feel her body heat, far enough not to touch her by accident.

Silence. Suffocating silence.

Vlad cleared his throat, but I didn't see the expression on his face; I was too busy staring at the carpet below, a decidedly blank look on my face. "So, Daniel, Jasmine. Shall I have the pleasure to know what this is all about?" Without looking at her, I knew that Jazz was biting her lip, thinking over how much to give away and how much to keep close to our chests.

"Danny got hurt," she said simply, sounding like she was on the dawn of breaking down in tears. "And ever since, he's been like this."

For a while, Vlad didn't say anything, but when he spoke I noticed that he had no trace of emotion in his voice, just a bland tone that suggested that he didn't care. Of course he didn't care. This was _Vlad. _"May I ask how he got hurt?" he asked, carefully placing his words.

"I don't know," Jazz replied. "I mean, it's not—it's not really my story to tell." I could feel her looking at me, blue eyes pleading.

"I can't help Daniel unless I know the severity of his injuries," Vlad said. "Be it physical...or psychological."

Jazz paused, then admitted, "It's...a mixture of both, actually, and it's a long story."

It wasn't nice, being talked about like I wasn't there, but I honestly couldn't do _anything _in Vlad's presence. It was just...it reminded me so much of Jack—_dad—_back then, on that night...controlling, unforgiving, merciless, along with mom, who wouldn't believe me at _all—_I stopped myself before the thought could go down the wrong road. Him being here just caused me to freeze up, and it took too much of my willpower—willpower that I didn't have—to try and break out of it. Which is funny, because I'm pretty sure that his core is fire, not ice...

"No," I found myself saying, croaking out the word. I hated myself for breaking in between, but I didn't dare look up or correct myself. "No. No no no no no."

"Danny," Jazz started, but I cut her off by shaking my head violently.

"N-no," I said again, and this time it came out shaky and I recoiled from both of them, moving a bit into myself. "No. H-he can't, no no no n-no..." I moved back as Jazz's hand came in contact with my skin, where I had gotten hit with a basketball yesterday—or was it a dodgeball?—or had someone bumped into me...? It was becoming fuzzy. Somewhere in my line of vision, I could see Vlad's apathetic face, and I wanted to punch it in.

"I see that he doesn't want my help," the older halfa's voice cut in smoothly. "Jasmine, if you would—"

"No!" my sister said loudly, putting her hands around my shoulders and hugging me tight. For a moment, I froze in her embrace, before my tense shoulders relaxed and I melted into her hug. She was warm. She was warm in a way that Maddie—mom wasn't. "You don't understand, Vlad," she continued quietly. "I've become desperate. Danny—he's not—he's not getting any better, and he _needs _a doctor. I don't know if you're allowed to know what happened to Danny if he doesn't want to tell you."

From the tiny crooks through a mass of red hair, I saw Vlad frown. "Does your parents know about this?"

When Jazz spoke, her voice was cold enough to freeze the Earth's core. "Yes. And I prefer if you would not mention it to them." Vlad seemed surprised by Jazz's answer—or maybe it was the loathing in her voice. Along with the shadows under her eyes and a bumbling, stuttering, panic ridden me that was in her arms.

For a moment I met Vlad's eyes. They were blue, dark blue, almost like shallow waters that sucked you in if you didn't pay enough attention. They were hateful, or jealous, of scalding like they usually were; instead, Vlad was looking at me with a sort of curiosity, a bit of surprise, and confusion. He didn't know why I was acting this way, what could make me act this way. He didn't want to know. But he did, and I knew it.

After a while, still looking me in the eyes, he said, "With pleasure."

.

_With pleasure. _

It sounded like a death sentence.

Vlad's voice resonated throughout my head endlessly, like a broken mantra or a cracked record, refusing to be forgotten. He had said it with such plain acceptance, like he didn't need a reason to help me, like he wasn't devising some sort of eloquent plot to use my weak stage against me, like he actually _cared. _

Maybe that was what had driven the knife home; Vlad pretending to care. Playing a game of lies when we all knew what he wanted in the end—hell, even _Jazz _cracked and went to him, which was the ultimate trump card. He knew that something was wrong with me, deeper than any other level of pain that I had been on before, and my parents knew. I don't know if he gathered that as they knew my current situation or whether they _knew, _but I guessed that he supposed it was the first one. Even though it was the second. Even though they were the reason why.

Jazz fed another lie to Mr. Lancer, saying that I was in a doctor's appointment, and he had nodded and accepted it humbly. After all, I was a mess; it was no surprise that I would be sent to see a professional, what with the sudden panic attack and running out of school yesterday. I could feel the eyes of my classmates on me, especially Sam and Tucker, but ignored it; it was nothing like the harsh glare of the operation table.

It was almost the end of English period, thank god, and when the bell rang there was a second before everyone left. It was as if they had collectively stared at me for a minute, probing with their eyes, before getting back to their lives. It was only Fenton, after all; the loser, the wannabe, the geek. He wasn't important. Because anyone who wasn't them _wasn't important. _

"Mr. Fenton," Mr. Lancer called from behind me, causing me and my friends to stop in turn. I glanced at him. "If you would come in here for a minute."

I felt as though someone dropped another cinderblock into my stomach for a moment, adding along to the one that Vlad had dropped earlier. This time, though, my mind was promptly of all things relating to Vlad and a fear settled in, wondering what the hell it could be now. Maybe I forgot another homework assignment. Maybe I forgot that I should have been listening in class.

I stopped in front of Mr. Lancer, giving him the best blank stare I could muster. It must have affected him a little, because he shifted and looked slightly unnerved.

"I've noticed that...there have been some changes in you, Mr. Fenton," he started softly, right to the point, brown eyes penetrating me. "It seems as though you've gone into...some sort of depression. It worries me, Danny—you're one of my students, and I care about my students." His eyes softened. "I would just like you to know that if you have anything you would like to talk to me about...I'm ready to listen."

I would be lying if I said that what Mr. Lancer said didn't affect me or anything. Because it did. I always thought that I was one of the worst students that Lancer had, considering he expected much more of me through my sister. Once he saw my grades, he faltered, and when I became late to every class, his opinion of me had gone much lower. Or at least, that's what I assumed; I guess I wasn't right or he still had a soft spot, because this was _definitely _not was what I was expecting.

Mr. Lancer was gazing at me expectantly, like he was wishing for me to say something, anything, to ease whatever he was feeling. And for a second, I was tempted to tell him everything; about Phantom, about mom, about dad, about being completely at their mercy. But then a terrifying thought crossed my mind: _what if he told?_ My parents could be arrested. I would never see them again. I would never heal. The whole thought, despite what had gotten me to this point in the first place, frightened me to no end.

So I cleared my throat and decided to tell him the truth; the one that I made just for him.

"With all due respect, sir," I started, tensing a bit less when I noticed that my voice was steady, "I haven't even told Sam and Tucker. I just don't trust you enough to tell you my life story." It was short, simple, blunt. It hit home, I could tell by the way that he gaped at me slightly, looking hurt and puzzled at the same time. I nodded to him, not saying anymore, turned and walked out the door.

Sam and Tucker were waiting for me at my locker, one on each side, holding their books already. Tucker handed me the textbook for next period's math, giving me a cautious and worried look. "Dude, what did he want?" he asked, pressing me for answers gently.

Sam glared at him, but I interrupted before she could admonish him. "He wanted to talk to me about my behavior." I said. "I told him that it was none of his business."

My friends' eyebrows went all the way up to their hairlines; Sam and Tucker shared a look, then a smile, before Sam grinned and looked at me. "Well, look who went all snappy on us."

I shot her a weird look. "Wha—"

"It's about time that you snapped, man," Tucker said amiably, putting his arm around my shoulder. He started to steer me to the direction of the math classroom, Sam sticking by closely. "I was thinking you were a machine or something."

While they were talking, I was only becoming more and more confused. "This is starting to sound like Jazz's psychobabble," I murmured. "I have no idea what you guys are talking about."

"You're being more like yourself," Sam chided, flicking me lightly on the forehead, reaching up to do so. "Y'know. All annoyed at teachers and stuff." she gave me a hopeful smile, and I realized just how _desperate _they were to get me back to normal. I felt something build up in my throat, probably because of the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again, but hell—at least they're _trying. _

So, unwillingly, I let out a little smile myself. "I'll never be like myself again." They chose wisely not to say anything to that.

But, after a moment of walking we were in front of the door and Tucker had taken his arm off of my shoulders. He said under his breath lowly, "Maybe not, but it doesn't mean that you have to go through this yourself."


	4. part iii

_I'm getting married soon. Say hello to my lovely soon-to-be wife, _AnneriaWings. _The theme is blue and purple and all is invite—as long as you bring presents, of course. ;)_

_Well, it seems as thought fanfiction dot net hates me. I lost three documents, all of which I am frustrated over because I know that I will never rewrite them the way that I first wrote them. Oh, writing site, how I loathe thee. (Yes, the little poem-thing in the beginning is a direct reference to T.S. Elliot's poem whose name escapes me at the moment.)_

_Oh, and - Katie (AnneriaWings) has already wrote most of _Wasteland, _just hasn't posted it. I say that there will be no more Requiem until she posts. XD Sorry about that. (But really, she follows it on dA, so I can still post on ff-net. Muahahaha. For whoever actually reads. Review~!  
><em>

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><p><strong>requiem<strong>_  
>it ends with a bang<br>_a bang, bang, bang  
><em>not a whimper.<br>_[**part iii**]

* * *

><p>The day wore on like usual; with constant stares, the threads of whisper curling around my ears. For a moment, I couldn't tell you if they were real or not; lately, I seem to be seeing, hearing things that aren't there, floating in and out of space and reality before stopping somewhere in between. It scares me. but if I was being completely honest, I didn't mind it either.<p>

I met with Vlad last week, but it seemed like eons ago when I didn't think about it and when I did, I felt like it was still a few hours beforehand. I could still see Vlad's piercing eyes through the threads of Jazz's red hair, hear his voice resonating in my head. I couldn't figure out, for the life of me, his plan. It wasn't like there was anything more to do with me_—_I was still sane enough (I hope) to not fall into any traps, and I knew that he knew that. But I wasn't completely there either. That I was sure of very well.

There was nothing to gain from my existence. I was numb all over, feeling like I was forever stuck in a state where I couldn't heal and I couldn't possibly fall deeper into oblivion_—_even though at some times, both sounded so tempting.

During these days, I would muse and wonder what hell felt like. I know that the Bible and Testaments and whatever said that it was a burning, fiery depth of endless pits, no escape, no help, nothing. You where there by yourself, kept to yourself, no matter how much you cried out for help, turning into ashes by an ever lasting fire that melted your insides and made you feel worthless.

If that was hell, than I was sure that I had already been through it.

It made me think of hell in a different way; if there _was _a hell, I'd imagine it to be frozen over. Cold. Frigid. Numb, left in a state of nothingness and nowhere, like I was, like I was supposed to be, confused and lost and placed in something that wasn't supposed to be there. I think it would be much worse to not know what you were faced against, to be left in a prison with shackles you've tied to your own wrist, fighting off your demons that will never go away, slipping deeper into the darkness.

Huh. Maybe I _am_ screwed up. More than I think.

I've noticed something new in my patterns of behavior. Before Jazz did. I don't think she has yet, actually. I mean, she still hasn't called Vlad yet, and I know that she wouldn't do so without asking me first.

(_would she?_)

I shook my head and with a dry throat, look to the top shelf of the kitchen, where prescriptions from the doctor lay. High blood pressure, Advil, Tylenol, allergy medications...sleeping pills.

It's so easy, I find, to just reach out my hand and grab it, stuff a few down my throat, close my eyes and realize that it'll be all over. I wouldn't have to go through the pain of seeing my parents every day, act like nothing's wrong, try to heal when healing is just _so hard. _There are moments when I believe that trying isn't worth it, when I believe that nothing I can do will help. Me, and Jazz, and my parents were forever screwed, broken by one night's mistake.

And pretending through these lies_—_God, I can't _take _it. I hate lies. I hate lies. _I hate them so much. _

Maybe it's because my whole life has been a lie for two years. Lying to my parents, lying to my teachers, lying to my classmates, sometimes even lying to my best friends. I weaved myself an intricate web of lies, so thick and hard that I couldn't break out of it until someone else had done it for me, shattered it all in one place, made me never want to lie again. Because lies brought hurt. They brought pain and right now, I hated pain.

But I knew one thing for certain; the truth hurt a godawful lot more.

It's been a month, almost. Nothing. No change. _Nothing. _Because me and my family, we still pretend like nothing's wrong, even though we try and sometimes we don't, and it's confusing because you don't know when to give up and when to keep going on. Because it's all so _hopeless. _

Nothing.

That's what I felt.

_Absolutely nothing. _

Dead, maybe, just like Phantom is. Just like our family is.

Without me noticing, my hand reached out for the plastic orange bottle, hard in my palms, blocky letters and numbers possibly the last thing that I might ever see. My cold fingers lightly goes over the words, printed in ink, small bumps in the label. I stared at the round tablets, miniscule and so hard to believe that enough of those could kill me. Rid me of this pain. Permanently.

Because pain was all I was feeling_—_nothing, no happiness, no sadness, no anger. Day through day, it's only pain, it's only burning, and if it could all stop for a while then I could maybe think properly, see my life properly, see how much it broke and shattered and crumbled in my hands.

"_Danny!_"

The shrill shriek pierced through the quiet, ringing in my ears so loud that I jerked and dropped the bottle of pills. A slender hand reached down and picked it up, and I didn't dare look up to see my sister's disappointed, agonized, and heartbroken face. I had caught a glimpse of it when she was straightening herself.

"These are sleeping pills," she said quietly, strained. "For naps and when you have insomnia. Also for nightmares that keep you up. Are you getting nightmares, Danny?" Her voice was steady but seemed unstable at the same time, a sort of paradoxical moment that made sense.

"Not really," I answered her, which was not technically a lie. The first week I'd been plagued with them. Soon enough though, it was only darkness, me stumbling blindly, reaching out for something that wasn't there. Blank. Completely void.

She spoke again, and this time I could see a drop fall to the floor. Of her tears. "And I suppose that you weren't only going to take one, were you?" When I didn't answer her, more tears fell. I felt a sick twisting churn in my gut, like someone had stabbed me with a fork. "Danny! Answer me, please. Please." She repeated the last word like a broken mantra, and I bit my lip.

"Maybe," I replied vaguely. "I was thinking about it."

Hearing me admit it made her sob harder. I felt like throwing up. Getting rid of all the pain and ash and charred remains in my stomach. Getting rid of everything.

She dropped the bottle of pills and I stared at it on the ground, where it rolled toward her feet. Instead of picking it up, she stared at it, sniffling, tears rolling off her cheeks and creating wet spots on her shirt. "Why?" she said in a whisper, looking like she was moments away from a breakdown. "Why? Danny, why?"

"Maybe I just don't want to deal with it anymore," I replied, moving past her and up the stairs, every step reminding me of the twine in my chest and torso, before I fell on the bed with an audible thump. I sat there, closed my eyes, and I was as knocked out as if I took a pill in the first place.

.

Jazz wouldn't talk to me the next morning, and I couldn't blame her. She looked like death itself; pale skin, circles under her bloodshot eyes, thinner than usual. I felt the sharp stabs of guilt, knowing that I was the one that caused her to go this far, but I couldn't do anything about it; instead, I slumped against the seat of her car, still pulsing body heat, still alive.

I didn't go to my first period class, surprisingly. We were thirty minutes early, which I had no idea about until I took a glance at the clock; Jazz must've turned it back so that we would be early. I had no idea why, though. She took my arm and dragged me over to the main office; I got a bad feeling at the pit of my stomach.

Just as Jazz was about to open her mouth to say something to the secretary, Principal Ishiyama emerged from her office. She was a woman of average height, small, pointed eyes, and dark hair that was always pulled away from her deeply wrinkled face. She was strict, all right, and I knew that this wasn't going to be a meeting about academics as soon as I saw the shiny skin of Mr. Lancer's head in the room.

"Ah, Jasmine," Principal Ishiyama said coolly, focusing her eyes on my sister. "I've been expecting you and your brother. Come in, come in." She ushered my and my sister inside, where I was met face-to-face with Mr. Lancer and a few other teachers were there too, but I only registered my English teacher's face. Most probably because I had not spoken to him—he was absent yesterday—since the day I told him that I couldn't trust him. He kept his burning eyes on me, and I ignored it.

Jazz sat down in one of the plush chairs, me following soon afterward in a sort of robotic motion. Principal Ishiyama sat in her own chair and crossed her fingers, staring at us with apprehensive eyes. "Now, Mr. and Ms. Fenton, may I ask why you have asked for an appointment with me?"

"I did," Jazz blurted out. "Not Danny." I twitched, almost feeling the questions at my back; why was I here, then. Jazz continued, "But it's about him, so he has to be here."

This was news to me; I turned to stare slightly at Jazz, questioning and confused, but she ignored me.

Instead, she said to Principal Ishiyama, "I want to take Danny out of Casper High."

A stunned silence fell in the conference room. All eyes were on Jazz, including mine, most probably thinking: _what the hell just happened here?_ Because I knew that I was.

I let out a soft, "Jazz..." before I even knew it.

"W-well, this is quite shocking news," Principal Ishiyama stuttered. "May I ask on basis you would like to take Daniel out of school? And how you suppose that you can instead of your parents?" In a moment, she had regained her cold and calculating persona, even though the other teachers had yet to say anything. What could you say to that?

Jazz replied just as frostily. "I'm eighteen, and I'll have you know that just last week I got full custody of my little brother." The last part was almost snarled, and Principal Ishiyama looked taken aback at Jazz's hostile exterior. "And...no offense, Principal, but the reasons why is really none of your business."

I was pretty sure my jaw had dropped open by this time.

Principal Ishiyama looked stunned, but then her face reddened and her throat cleared. "Well, Ms. Fenton, since you'll give me no basis or reason why Mr. Fenton should be taken out of school, I'm afraid I can't allow you to relinquish a child's right to learn—"

Jazz's face turned a blotchy red. "You have no idea what we're going through!" she said hotly, but Principal Ishiyama continued as if she hadn't heard her.

"—and I'm afraid Daniel will have to stay in school. Unless you can give me a good reason why he shouldn't."

"He can't _live _here," she choked out, looking my way, tears gathering at the corner of her eyes. "I know for _sure _that he feels suffocated here, like he can't breathe, because everyone is noticing how he's changed. Because the pressure is getting too much and soon enough, he'll break, and then what's going to happen? Can you tell me that, Principal?"

the woman opened and closed her mouth looking between her and me. "And how can you be so sure of this? It looks like Daniel is fine to me—"

"Fine? _FINE?_" She pointed an angry finger at me, while I sat motionless. "_DOES HE LOOK _FINE _TO YOU? He doesn't eat, he doesn't talk, he won't sleep, he won't tell me anything! He won't talk to Sam or Tucker, he's not trying to heal, he's slipping! He's _breaking! _ARE YOU SO BLIND THAT YOU CAN'T SEE THAT OR ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE ME MADDER THAN I ALREADY AM?_" There was several bewildered faces, shocked beyond recognition as Jazz yelled, her hands clutched in tight fists, standing up in the middle of her rant with her eyes lit with anger—irrational anger.

Principal Ishiyama paled, looking like a gaping fish; her mouth opening and closing. Who knew, Jazz Fenton, the school's poster child would one day be yelling at the principal with her semi-vegetative brother at her side, looking like hell itself. For a moment, there was the only sound of Jazz's labored breathing, and then Principal Ishiyama tried to calm her down by saying, "Now Ms. Fenton, we can work this out—"

"He tried to kill himself yesterday," she said in a broken whisper, sounding drained of energy. She fell back into the chair, holding a hand over her eyes while I didn't move a muscle, even though I wanted nothing more to hug her right now, comfort her like she did to me. But I couldn't make myself do it; I stared at the spot in front of me blankly. Again, Jazz repeated, "He tried...t-to kill himself..." And once she started crying she couldn't stop.

Principal Ishiyama looked between me and Jazz, a truly horrified look on her face before it softened. She opened the drawer beside her, saying softly, "I'll get the papers to you tomorrow."

Jazz nodded wordlessly and wiped her eyes on her sleeve, standing up and placing her messenger bag on her shoulder, walking out of the room without dismissal. Suddenly, the air in the room got tense, as I still couldn't move my limbs. My mouth felt dry like sandpaper. I felt the harsh eyes of everybody on my form, and it reminded me painfully of surgeon lights.

"She knows because she's going through the same thing," I said suddenly, quietly, enough for them to hear.

"What?" Principal Ishiyama replied, baffled.

I looked her in the eyes and she blinked in shock. "You asked her earlier how she could possibly know what I was feeling," I reminded her. "I told you it was because she's going through the same thing." I let out a small, sad smile. "It's just that Jazz is much more stronger than I am; she always will be, she always was."

.

I exited the office to see Jazz's back, tense, staring blankly at the glass case that held all of the school's accomplishments—courtesy of the students. Her face was a mixture of troubled and angry; her cheeks were a blotchy red. She had been crying, at least shed a tear or two. I walked up behind her, my footsteps quiet, my back and arms feeling oddly empty without a bookbag to be holding.

She saw me through the glass on the other side. Licking her lips, she shut her eyes for a minute and looked up, still not turning around to face me. "It's so hard," she whispered, biting her bottom lip. "I don't know how you do it, Danny."

For a moment, I let a ghost of a smile flicker on my face. "Practice."

She blinked at my lame attempt at a joke and then chuckled dryly. "Oh, shut up." she sniffed. "You're so much taller than me now. So many things are changing..." Her eyes shifted toward me. "And I can't do anything about them."

"Not everything has changed."

"Yes they have, Danny." her voice was painful. "Don't you dare try to deny it."

I didn't say anything. It was too true for me to be in denial.

For a moment, I was over come with a feeling of madness. That was all I could explain it as; a moment of _pure _madness. For a moment, I felt like closing my eyes and letting myself drift into my subconsciousness; let myself float on an abyss of white, switch between blue and white and over again. Watch the world from eyes that weren't mine. Be Danny Phantom. Be a ghost. Be _dead. _

So tempting. So _tempting..._ I shook myself out of those thoughts.

"I'm just saying that..." I was at a lost for words, even though I felt a need to say something. Jazz's face was uncharacteristically apathetic. I was looking at her through a looking glass. "Jazz, all I'm saying is that...you don't need to worry," I changed tactics. "You've been doing that enough these past few weeks. I..." I swallowed thickly, feeling a lump in my throat. "I need to get myself back together. I need to get some sense back into me."

Jazz spun around, red hair flying, her eyes ablaze. "Don't give me that crap, Danny!" she said loudly, almost yelling, her eyes watering up with tears. I was stunned. "Nothing will _ever _be normal again! Don't you get that? We're all so messed up! Me, you, mom, dad, _everyone in the whole damned family! _We're all _broken! _We're all...all flailing, trying to be something we're not! You know this! I know this! _Nothing is going to change! _Nothing with be the same! _NOTHING!_" By the end of her rant, she was yelling at me, hot tears falling down her face.

I felt a strange murmuring in my ears; like a buzzing, like a presence in the corner of my mind whispering dark things to me. "We can't just stand there and not try," I told her, knowing that I failing to sound convincing. After all, I felt the same way and she knew it. "I mean, we're just...just..."

(_your fault) _

(_lies lies lies lies lies LIES LIES LIES LIES—_)

"Living a lie," Jazz finished, sniffing. She sounded bitter. So bitter. It hurt to know that I was the one that did that. "We're all living a stupid lie. Pretending that we're okay. Pretending that nothing ever happened. Pretending that what mom and dad did wasn't wrong. Pretending that_—_that_—_they're still our parents! Pretending like they _deserve _to be our parents! Your parents! How you can you _live _knowing with what they did to you?" Her voice was pleading. Breaking. Crumbling.

The muttering got louder. It was giving me a headache. I couldn't think straight. All I could hear was Jazz and my name, my screams, the faint echo of (_"Never our son...monster..._") through my ears. Transferring their way into my brain. Worming their way into my heart. Breaking me. Burning me. Tearing me apart.

"I can't," I choked out. "I CAN'T!" Jazz jumped, startled at my loud outburst. I clenched my fists, nails digging so hard into my nails that they drew blood.

"I _can't _live with it! Do you know how many times I have to wake up in the morning, pleading, waiting for this all to end? Wanting all this_—_this_—_this _hurt _to stop? Do you know how hard it is to face mom and dad _every single fucking day _and know that they_—_they_—_t-they_—_" My voice wouldn't work properly, but I couldn't stop. My eyes were lined with red; my vision of blurry. Voices murmured. They wouldn't _stop! _

(_"STOP IT!_")

"I want it all to end! I want this all to _stop! _You don't know how many times I looked everywhere around me, wonder how _easy _it would be to die, how I could just reach out and end it all. That's all I want. I don't _want _to be fixed. I don't _want _to be analyzed. I know I'm psycho. _I'm messed up, Jazz. THEY MESSED ME UP. THEY TOOK MY LIFE AWAY FROM ME. THEY RUINED ME! LOOK AT ME!_" I jabbed my chest so hard that it hurt. "Look! I can't do _anything _right! You said it yourself! I'm not _normal! _I can't go a _day _without thinking about it, can't go a _moment _without feeling it all over again, can't go a _second _without hearing their voices."

At some point, I had started to cry_—_tears, fresh and warm, rolled down my cheeks. My voice was hoarse from yelling; but it was the only way that I could get all these ugly feelings out of me. I needed them out of me. I needed to let it go but it was forever branded to my skin.

"Danny..." Jazz whispered, her knees weak when she fell to the floor, her hands covering her mouth. "Danny, I'm s-so sorry, I d-d-didn't know..."

"Of course you didn't know," I said, breathing heavily, almost spitting out the words in my anger, unable to help myself. "No one knew! No one knew how I was feeling! _No one fucking bothered to ask! _You don't know how it feels like to see the people that _cut you open _every day, look at them eating and drinking and wish that they would just _die. _Make them_ suffer, _just like I did. Make them feel the_ pain, _the_ helplessness_ that I felt when I was on that table. A-and..." I felt myself crying again. "...I'm not supposed to feel that way. They're my _parents. _Jazz. _Our parents. _I shouldn't hate them as much as I do. But I do. I can't help but want to wish that they would just _drop dead._"

The voices stopped.

Every single one. Not my mother's incessant, harsh tone in my head, nor my dad's cold words. Not the buzzing of a migraine coming along. Nothing. Like Jazz said. Nothing. Nothing. Blank. Empty. Worthless.

I was breathing heavily, my face red and a drip drop of blood from my palms down to the clean, tiled floor. I blinked, and then the blurriness cleared from my eyes. Jazz was staring at me with her wide, glassy orbs, disbelieving and not bating a breath; this was the first time that I had expressed my feelings ever since the incident, and she was still in shock from my negative feelings.

But then the force of another revelation hit me.

Everyone there were people staring at me. Shock. Stunned. Revulsion. Disbelief. Horror. _Disgusting. No way! You're not serious.._. All quiet. So quiet. Nobody was saying anything. I choked on nothing; on air. The blood was rushing to my head, my heart beating so fast and so loud in my chest and ears that I thought it would explode. My head hurt. My limbs felt numb.

_No. _

They _knew. _

_No. No. No. No no no no no no no. _

**_They knew. _**

And it was all my fault.

I could feel myself hyperventilating, wanting air, feeling cut off from it. Nothing. Nothing. I was disappearing, fading, but still there, and that's what hurt the most; I was still there. I was _here. _I was so _stupid. _

I heard someone call my name. "_Danny..._"

And then I turned and ran.

I ran until my legs hurt and the wind blew through my hair and stung my tear-ridden cheeks. I ran until I couldn't hear their cries of "Danny!" behind me. I ran until my lungs felt like they were ready to explode. I ran until I had to stop somewhere and throw up. I ran until my stomach hurt and my waist hurt and my torso's hurt. I ran until I stopped and I couldn't run anymore. I ran until I was stuck in the middle of the road.

They knew. They knew. All of them knew. All of them knew how messed up I was. All of them knew how damaged I was. As my head turned, I barely had time to breathe as I felt the hard side of something metal hit me, my body skidding across something hard and etching into my skin, burning me. Blood flew and splattered; I felt it on my face. My head hit something hard and I heard_—felt_—__something crack.

Darkness overwhelmed me. I never wanted it any more than I did now.

.

(_liar. you're what you hate most._)

_"Certainly not my son! You lying, filthy, _disgusting—"

_tear you apart _

_(dead. Danny Phantom is dead. )_

_molecule_

_"Please, please, just listen to me, it's Danny, Danny, you're son, please...please..." _

(_stop stop stop so much _**pain **_stop stop stop please, just stop it all, don't you love me? please)_

_by molecule! _

**snap. **

_(i thought you loved me i'm your son don't you love me?)_

**snap. **

_"Wait - waitwaitWAIT!" _

_(oh god it hurts)_

_"Filthy. Abomination." _

**snap. **

_(iloveyou.)_

_please don't do this. _

_pleasepleaseplease mom dad i loveyou_

**snap.**

_"No, no..." _

_(it burns please stop exploding painpainpainpain)_

**snap.**

_"I thought you loved me..." _

_(it's me, danny, you're son—)_

_"MONSTER!" _

**snap.**

_"Ectoplasmic scum..." _

_(...why?)_

_iloveyou. iloveyou. iloveyou. iwassupposedtoloveyou. ilovedyou. ilovedyou._

**snap.**

_"...can I slice and dice him?"_

_(not your son. not your son. monster. ghost. not your son. not danny.)_

_(I hate you.) _

**snap.**

_(it hurts...i hate you.)_

_"Please..."_

_I hate you._

_(not human. monster. not your son. not danny. monster. monster.)_

_I was supposed to love you. _

_(where did it all go wrong?)_

_(ghost. ghost. ghost. inhumane. ghost. i'm not me anymore.)_

_._

When I opened my eyes, I was met with the bright, harsh light of fluorescent lights. For a moment, my breath caught in my throat and I found it hard to breathe. It became clearer after I blinked.

My arms and legs felt heavy; I could barely move. Laid down on a soft, cushion-like bed, I realized that I was in a hospital room. It was eerily close to something else that tipped over the edge of my mind, but I tried hard not to think about it. My head felt like it was laced with lead; my eyes strained to see everything. When I breathed in, I noticed that something was over my mouth. Cautiously, I brought a hand to discover that it was an oxygen mask—and that I had a needle and tube sticking out of the back of my palm.

Wincing, I put my hand out of sight. I didn't want to deal with this now. But for some reason, I was adamant on getting myself hurt terribly.

I breathed in and out, savoring the fact that there was no twinge in my chest when I breathed. I was in some sort of drug-induced, pain-free daze. It felt, in no other words, awesome. Wonderful. It was the most that I had not felt in weeks, days, hours. I needed this. My body twitched slightly, and I groaned slightly.

Out of nowhere, the glass doors before me—how had I not noticed them before?—slid open to reveal a stout woman with her hair tied back in a knot and loose, light blue clothes. She perked up at the sight of me, apparently conscious. Her eyes were motherly and she smiled.

"It's good to see you're awake," she said softly. Stepping forward, she placed a clipboard in a little slot at the foot of my bed. "My name is Sharon. Just press that little red button there if you want to call me, okay?" She pointed to something beside my headboard; I turned my head painstakingly to see the red button that she was referring to.

"I'm going to take some simple tests to make sure you're fine, okay?" Sharon patted my hand. "Do you want me to take off the mask? Or would you like to answer in nods?"

I motioned feebly to the mask.

She reached out and with the utmost gentleness that I hadn't felt in weeks, removed the mask from my face. Immediately, I sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and let out a hacking cough. Sharon was alarmed, reaching for my side, but I shook my head and waved her away slightly. I took another breath, hoarse, but when I focused it became easier. After a few moments, I was taking short, almost desperate gasps of air, but it was enough.

"What happened?" I croaked out, nodding my head slightly to I could look at Sharon. I sounded horrible; my words were slurred slightly. "How long have I been here?"

Sharon frowned at my attempts to talk to her. "You were hit by a car," she said offhandedly. "Hurt pretty bad, Danny. Can I call you Danny? You've been here for about four days."

I ignored the question. "Four days? What?" I almost yelped, which caused me to cough again.

"I don't think you should be talking," Sharon frowned. "You obviously haven't recovered fully yet. Do you remember anything from the past few days?"

"No." I told her. "Nothing."

"I'm not surprised," she sighed. "You were given a lot of anesthesia. Sedatives. Things like that." When she saw the questioning look on my face, she bit her lip and gave me a worried look. "The doctors had to perform...surgery. There was a pretty bad gash on your leg." Her eyes flickered toward there. "You healed pretty fast, though."

Following that statement came a feeling that I had not felt in some time; panic. For my secret identity, that of which I still believed to be dead. She said that I went through surgery; no doubt the doctors had seen...my scars. And no doubt that there would be someone to come in and ask questions. Questions that would lead to the wrong answers, and just perhaps the right ones.

"I'm a fast healer," I muttered, even though that must've been obvious by now. "How bad was I hurt?"

"Just a few sprains, the leg injury, a broken arm..." she trailed off, her eyes going toward my chest before she continued on bravely, "...and a ripped open stitch."

I felt my heart drop into my stomach. There was a large beeping, like a spike. "Oh."

Sharon's eyes flickered to the left, looking at something before back at me. She softened. "Danny..." For a moment, she sounded so much like Jazz...tears gathered at the corners of my eyes. I remembered what I said to her a mere four days ago; how hard must it have hurt? Jazz was trying to do the right now, falling in her own pit of despair while trying to pick me out of mine...and how do I repay her? By yelling at her, telling her all the ugly things that I feel.

"Oh." I choked out, my breath coming in shorter, faster, gasps. I felt something drop in me; blue, white, swimming in a haze of nothingness. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, loud, constant, irregular.

"_Danny?_" I heard Sharon say, panicking. "_Danny!_"

I wouldn't respond to her; instead, I closed my eyes, feeling my mind float away into a place where there was no hurt.

.

The next time I woke up, there was someone next to me. It wasn't Sharon, but a tall, built man. He wore a smart coat over his shoulders and the color blue—thankfully, I was coherent. Whatever happened before shook me real bad, but now I was just a bit better. Whatever they had been giving me must've been working. I made a soft sound, wanting to get up, and the man's attention was on me immediately.

"Hey, kiddo," he said. "You're awake. C'mon, get up. Want help?" I nodded feebly and he helped me. I hadn't felt another human touch in a long time—it made me forget how warm it was. Or how cold I was. The man seemed to notice this, because his eyes flickered to the spot that he had touched to help me get up.

"Can I call you Danny?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure," I mumbled, taking off my mask.

He smiled. "Great. My name's Detective Oliver John." The world 'detective' put me on high alert. "Now, kid, it seems as though you went through a really rough time; not just on the car accident, but something else as well." To his credit, Oliver didn't look at my torso, where the stitched wound lay. "Can you tell me about this?"

I pressed my lips together. Then, with a hoarse voice, I replied, "I wish I could."

His eyes flashed. Then, with an easy smile he said, "That's okay, Danny. Is there anything you want to know?"

I contemplated on that question for a moment. There was the obvious questions: how bad was I hurt? I got the answer to that. Am I mentally scarred? I don't know. Do you people think that this was a suicide? Probably. Am I suicidal? I have no clue. And then there were the more serious questions that were burning inside of me: why did this happen? Why didn't I tell them? Why was I so stupid, so desperate, so secretive?

In the end, I settled for, "Where's Jazz?"

Detective Oliver's eyes were carefully looking at me. "Wouldn't you like to see your parents first?" At the mention of Mad—mom and dad, I heard my heart traitorously skip, the beep alerting both of us that it had happened. I calmed myself quickly and said, "I've always been closer to Jazz than the rest of my family." Licking my lips, I continued, "M-mom and d-dad have always been...off on their own, inventing new things, getting head starts on their research." I sighed slightly. "Teenage stuff. Nothing huge."

Oliver nodded, understanding. He had probably figured out that my parents were ghost hunters. I wonder if he was thinking of asking me whether or not I loved my parents, wanted them to come secretly. I wonder what I would answer with.

"Jazz is in the waiting room." The side of the detective's mouth quirked. "Your sister is a fiery one, you know. Wouldn't stop going crazy over you. Cried all over a nurse after she yelled at her."

I winced at Jazz's eccentric behavior. It was becoming more familiar nowadays. "That's Jazz alright," I groaned instead, keeping the suspicion of Jazz's sudden change in behavior that I'm pretty sure anyone who ever knew her would notice.

"Would you like me to go get her?" he asked.

I nodded, the action hurting my neck. "Please."

A moment's notice later and Jazz came in, looking pale and stressed, worry mixed in with her features. Detective Oliver gave me a look that clearly read, _"this talk is not over"_ before turning around and walking out the door to give us some privacy.

Jazz looked like she was about to cry, but pressed her lips together tightly and sat next to me in a hospital chair. She gripped my cold, colorless hand and squeezed it tight. "How're you doing, Danny?"

For her sake, I gave her a weak smile. "As good as to be expected. It's going to take longer to heal, though." I coughed, the action causing me to hurt my ribs. "My healing is all messed up, remember? I'm probably going to need weeks in here." My eyes flickered toward the glass door. "Besides, that detective is here and I know that it's about...the incident."

Jazz winced and bowed her head, a curtain of red hair falling over her face. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should have known..."

"There was no way you could have possibly known," I said, gasping for breath slightly. "I was too stubborn to tell you...it's not your fault, Jazz...m'fault..."

Her head snapped up, and for a moment there was a burning fire in her eyes. "Don't you dare say that, Daniel James Fenton!" she whispered reverently, sounding so much like my mom when she was scolding me it hurt, "Nothing here is your fault. Stop thinking like that. You couldn't predict what would happen as much as I could." She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. "This is no one's fault."_ Except mom and dad's, _was the echo that I could barely hear.

"Then why did this happen?" I was desperate to know why. Jazz always had the answers—surely she had the answer for this.

Instead, she gave me a pleading, searching look. Shaking her head slightly, she replied, "Maybe it was meant to happen, Danny." A sting in my chest. Noticing my hurt expression, she continued, "Maybe it was something that needed to happen. Maybe you and I don't like it, but it's already happened and we don't know why. All we can do know is...face it, get over it, and move on." Her voice never lost that soothing, soft quality. In the middle of her talk, she reached out and ran her fingers through my hair.

"Maybe even someday, we can learn to forgive mom and dad for what they've done." Jazz paused. "I hope you get better, Danny. God, you make me worry so much."

"I'm sorry." I said, unable to tell her anything else. Jazz seemed to understand and simply smiled at me, planted a kiss on my hairline, and left me to my own thoughts.

"It'll all be okay," she whispered. "We'll get through this." _  
><em>


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